


Moments

by WingsOfTime



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Autistic Character, Baking, Cookies, Crying, Cuddling, Dancing, Fluff, Fwiendship, Gen, Gift Giving, Hot Chocolate, Important Conversation probably, Panic Attack, Sad, Shenanigans, Sickfic, a bad idea, communication in relationships, hug, insomnia due to blankets, some bullshit, thancred needs a break, that one time when ikael's tail caught fire, the magic of THEATER
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-07 23:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 86
Words: 77,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13445769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: Various drabbles/short writings that either didn't make it into "ikael" or that I just wanted to write without fitting around a plot.





	1. learning

**Author's Note:**

> this one was inspired loosely by [Lessons from a Bard](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4607832) by Lekiana.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (happens after [ "So you can feel better"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13439232))

“Don’t worry; you’ll get it,” Thancred said calmly. The music hummed in the distance, a faint, sweet melody guiding their steps.

Or at least attempting to. Ikael made a noise of frustration, looking straight down onto the floor at their feet. “I won’t!” he exclaimed. “Where do I step?”

“Hm.” Thancred considered. Perhaps they had been doing this wrong, after all. “Do you prefer to be the one giving or taking control in your relationships?”

Ikael gave him a look. “I am not having that conversation with you,” he said.

Thancred let go of his hand, and Ikael stared at him in restless confusion as he rearranged them, moving their hands into different positions.

“On my shoulder. Here.” Thancred was leading now. Perhaps it would be easiest if Ikael only had to follow. “Good. Now step with me…”

Ikael did, his movements still as stilted and hesitant as they had been for the entire past bell. But Thancred was patient, and easily corrected him when he misstepped.

“Your hand is sweating,” Ikael complained after a few minutes of this.

“That is your hand, not mine. Come now: one, two, three, four. That’s it.”

Ikael’s grip tightened on his shoulder, nails digging in. His gaze was fixed on their feet. But he was improving, very slowly.

 _Very_ slowly.

Ikael stepped on Thancred's foot and squeaked, then pulled away abruptly and screamed a little.

“No! I can’t. I’m terrible and I’ll never improve.”

Alright, they could take a break. “You are not terrible,” Thancred reassured firmly, “You are learning. But we will break for a moment.”

Ikael sighed in relief and exhaustion, and hoisted himself up onto the nearby railing. Thancred sat down next to him, bumping Ikael’s elbow with his.

Ikael dropped his face onto Thancred's shoulder. “No one will ever want to dance with me,” he mumbled, voice muffled.

Thancred patted him on the head, staring off into the distance. “Do not be like that,” he said. “Besides, even if this is not your strong suit, you have a lot of other talents. A man’s worth is not proven by his ability to dance alone.”

Ikael snorted unexpectedly, and after a second Thancred rolled his eyes. “Mature,” he said through a smile.

The musicians finished their current song and breaked for the moment, and Ikael and Thancred sat there, taking a rest as well. They would get back to it, later.

There was time.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u got a prompt send it to me somehow (tumblr is linked at the end of like every fic) and I'll probably write it!


	2. sick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the "time ikael got a cold" mentioned in uhhh shattering stars. didn't want to write an entire other sickfic, so here's a short one! sort of :o

“And _there_ is the man of the day. Why, I had been convinced you were infirm and suffering, but here you are, lying in bed doing nothing. Relaxing, even.”

Ikael, face barely visible underneath the large, messy pile of blankets haphazardly stacked on top of him, narrowed his eyes at Thancred. Unfortunately, as he had bundled himself in all the way up to his nose, the effect was more comical than menacing.

“’m not feelig well,” Ikael mumbled, voice muffled. The curtains were drawn, casting the room in a faded, dull light that matched his pallor.

Thancred cupped a hand to his ear. “I’m sorry? You’re not _what_?”

Ikael scowled at him, pulling his blankets up even higher. “Go ’way,” he grumbled pathetically.

“I can’t hear you underneath all of that congestion,” Thancred said, beginning to grin.

Ikael glared, then turned his head, barely enough to burrow into his pillow. His form moved underneath the covers, curling in on itself away from Thancred. He didn’t say anything.

Thancred made a faux-sympathetic noise. “Come now, you aren’t going to pout because of that, are you?”

Ikael curled up tighter. His visible ear, already folded low, twitched. Thancred got the distinct impression that he was waiting for Thancred to leave him alone.

Thancred felt his conscience twinge. He was not egoistic enough to fail to recognize when he had pushed too far, and from the looks of it, Ikael was too ill to withstand his jibes at the moment. Thancred moved to the side of the bed Ikael was facing and bent down on his knee.

“Well I am sure you have earned a little pouting, hm?” Thancred said gently, tilting his head in an attempt to make eye contact. “How are you feeling?”

Ikael’s glassy gaze met his. He blinked, eyelashes fluttering slowly, and sniffled.

“Gh,” he mumbled. His body wriggled closer to itself.

“Your best bet is sleep now, or so I have been told,” said Thancred. “I shall leave you be, but get better soon, alright?” He brushed his fingertips along the frame of Ikael’s face.

Ikael seemed to nod, closing his eyes, and Thancred hesitated for but a moment before laying a kiss on his forehead. “I’ll come back later,” he murmured, and rose to leave.

 He looked back for a second to check on Ikael. He was lying still, and his breathing wasn’t obvious due to the sheer volume of blankets piled on him, but he didn’t seem dead, at least.

Thancred took in the sight and felt an affectionate smile tug at his lips. He closed the door quietly, so as not to wake his friend.

~*~

Ikael chuckled throatily. His voice was hoarse, but his overall health was a lot better than it had been a few days ago. Seated beside him, legs crossed, Thancred smirked.

“Give me a moment! A moment. I can _sit up_ ,” Ikael asserted, hoisting himself up by an arm. “I am not an invalid.”

“Any _more_ ,” Thancred said. He raised the bowl he held in his hands. “Do you think you can hold this, or do I have to feed it to you with the spoon?”

Ikael slapped his arm lightly, and took the soup with a grin. “See?” he said. “Perfectly capable.”

“Debatable,” Thancred returned, craning his neck around to make a show of looking about the room.

Ikael raised an eyebrow. “What are you searching for?”

“Ah… a washcloth, to clean you up when you spill all over yourself,” said Thancred with a beatific smile.

Ikael scoffed. “I will _throw_ this at you,” he said, but he was still grinning. “Then see whom you will have to clean up.”

“Still you,” Thancred shot back easily. “I doubt you can throw very far with those little stick arms. How much muscle mass did you lose, do you think?”

Ikael’s grin froze, and his eyes widened. “Wait,” he said. Then, “No, Thancred—that’s a valid—don’t _laugh_ —I’ll have to... _ugh_ , stop!” He whined and hit Thancred with the spoon. Thancred kept laughing.

Eventually, Ikael huffed and rolled his eyes, and stuck a spoonful of warm soup in his mouth. Thancred breathed through the last of his chuckles and watched Ikael eat, occasionally dabbing at his mouth with the blanket and dodging the resulting spoon-hit. It was the most fun he had had in _weeks_.

They spent the afternoon like that, happy, not minding their other responsibilities. There might have been more important matters at hand, but… well. They could wait.

~*~


	3. slip of the tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now this one isn't technically canon of 'ikael.' It's a purely indulgent angst fic that I wrote back in early december when I was trying to juggle where the characters fit together. Therefore, it doesn't necessarily fit into the narrative, either interpersonally or chronologically.  
> Also, it's unfinished, and I did technically write it over a month ago with 0 intention of showing it anyone ever, so please excuse the general hot mess.

****

“How could you say that to me?! _You_ , of all people! After everything we’ve been through!”

Lyse was standing, had pushed herself up with trembling hands now clenched into fists, was staring at him with blue eyes of fury. Ikael’s lips were parted, eyes wide in surprise, hands raised to calm her.

“I—I didn’t mean—” It had just been a slip of the tongue. A slip of the tongue that had led to a question asked in an odd voice, her eyes downcast, and then he had told her (and immediately felt his mistake drip like molten lead out of his mouth), and now she was furious, and hurt.

“Well, obviously you did!” Her voice was shaking. He felt horrible, terrible, absolutely repugnant. “How could you… ‘I think you’d make a terrible leader. You’re the least qualified person for the job.’ Who… who _says_ that to someone? To a _friend_?”

“Lyse, I’m sorry.” He looked at her imploringly, begging her to understand. “I… I didn’t mean to hurt—”

“You didn’t mean to _hurt_ me?!” Now her voice was shrill. “Well, you did, Ikael! You knew this was all I had been thinking of, since—you knew how much this meant to me! How could you?”

She sounded on the verge of tears now, and— _gods_ , he was such an arse. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated, face falling, and almost reached out to her before thinking better of it. “I didn’t mean it like—look, I… I don’t think you can’t become a good leader in time, I just—there are qualities that you have yet to develop, I mean, and—hey, when I first started out, I was a terrible fighter—”

“‘Qualities?’” she repeated, face twisted, and his heart dropped. “W-what _fucking_ qualities do I not have that don’t fit your standard? Why am I not good enough for you?”

Ikael cringed at the swear; she must be incredibly upset right now. “Lyse, no, you’re plenty good enough for me—I have faith in you, don’t—”

“Well, it’s not like you’re so perfect either!” Her countenance was quickly changing from dismayed to furious. “You’re so—you’re so soft! So… _sensitive_. Look how much you’re backpaddling now! At least I can hit someone without asking if they’re alright and crying about it for the rest of the day.”

That had never happened, to his knowledge. “Okay, that’s a fair—”

“And then you whine about being _lonely_ , because you can’t find any _friends_ that _care about you_ and can tolerate you asking for a hug every five minutes! Gods, no wonder, if you’re that clingy!”

Whatever Ikael had been going to say caught in his throat as his breathing stuttered. He felt as if a rock had been hurled at his chest. He forced himself to swallow, thickly, but all desire to speak had suddenly fled. He felt his ears drop low, low to the ground and his tail curl around his legs.

(He hadn’t had a hug in _months_ , actually, _too long_ —)

Ikael averted his eyes, his lids heavy, and silence reigned for a long, uncomfortable moment. The other Scions were there, awkward presences lingering in a confrontation not of their making. Ikael could not focus on them. He did not know how they could be reacting to all of this.

He heard an angry, abrasive rush of air that could have been a sigh, and then Lyse stormed off, taking her fury with her.

Another awkward minute passed, and was only broken by Alphinaud saying, “Well… uh,” before he trailed off, unsure of how to continue.

Ikael forced himself upright. His body felt like gelatin. “I… I think I…” He did not know what to say. He gestured in an ambiguous direction, signalling his intent to leave, and walked away, tail between his legs, not daring to meet anyone’s eyes.

~*~

“There you are.”

Ikael’s ear flicked upwards at the sound, but he did not turn to look at the newcomer. Instead he kept picking at the grass, digging his nails in the soil before uprooting it, one blade at a time.

Someone sat down next to him, sighing a little at the hard ground. Thancred. Ikael clenched his jaw, grabbed a loose fistful of grass before releasing it, and then said,

“You want me to talk to Lyse.”

Thancred did not reply straight away. Ikael sensed him lean back, saw his legs uncross to stretch out. He looked back down.

“I had a hard time finding you, you know,” Thancred commented. “Well, almost,” he rectified. His voice was light, noncommittal.

He was probably none too happy with Ikael for upsetting one of his friends. Ikael made a pained grimace, guilt weighing him down heavily. He would have to apologize to Lyse, and perhaps explain himself, if she was willing to listen.

“How is she?” Ikael asked. He looked back, then, somewhere in the proximity of Thancred’s shoulder.

Thancred looked at him. “How is _she_?” he repeated, his intonation almost odd.

Ikael nodded. “Has she… is she less upset?”

Thancred said nothing for a moment, then, “Somewhat. It has been a couple of hours; if you wanted to talk to her, you might try to do so now.”

Ikael nodded, and stood up. Try. He had to, at least. At the very least he had to apologize. “Thank you,” he said to Thancred’s chin.

“She is by the garden,” Thancred replied. Ikael started to walk away. “And, Ikael?”

He glanced back.

“Try looking her in the eye,” Thancred said.

Ikael nodded, feeling his ears flatten back briefly. He left.

“You have a tell when you lie, you know,” Thancred said to empty air.

~*~

Ikael found Lyse in the garden as Thancred had told him, kneeling between flowers.

He closed his eyes, steeled himself. “Lyse,” he called out as he opened them.

She spun around, a whirl of red cloth following her, and he immediately averted his gaze. (He couldn’t.)

“I’m sorry,” he said in a rush, before she could speak, if she had wanted to. “I’m so sorry I hurt you. I—” He swallowed, “I shouldn’t have—at the very least I should have phrased it better, I mean, and, gods, I feel terrible.”

“Ikael,” she said, and she didn’t sound gentle, exactly, but her voice was lacking the anger it had been so steeped in earlier. “I… it’s… ugh.” She sighed, looked down, looked back up, and started again.

“Yes, it was wrong of you to say it like that,” she said. “But… you weren’t incorrect. I’m not really qualified to lead this rebellion, am I?”

She sounded… strangely sure of her words. Ikael glanced up in confusion, saw her wearing a bemused smile of all things, before she continued.

“I… had a talk with Y’shtola, actually, just now, and she said—” Lyse fidgeted, “Well, she said a lot of things. But among those things was that I shouldn’t get so angry if someone points out my faults. I guess it just—” She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, “—It meant a lot, coming from you. You have been, in many ways, my rock, in recent events, and to hear that you honestly thought that of me was… well, it wasn’t a truth I was prepared to face.”

Ikael flitted his gaze down guiltily. “I’m sorry,” he repeated softly, feeling like a broken mammet.

“It… It’s alright, Ikael. I… I forgive you. And hey, it’s not like I said very nice things to you either, eh? I should be apologizing too.”

She sounded like she was smiling. Ikael said, “That’s not—I deserved that. Don’t—i-it’s fine. I’m glad you’re alright.”

He looked at her, then. “And Lyse, I’ve no doubt that you’ll turn out to be a great leader.”

She looked shocked for a second, then her eyes crinkled in a smile. “Thank you, Ikael,” she said softly.

~*~

Thancred was still there when he got back. Ikael paused, then said, “I apologized to Lyse. She’s doing a lot better now.”

Thancred glanced up. “Ah, is she? Good, good.”

Ikael nodded, assuming that since he had settled things with Lyse, Thancred would leave. He didn’t.

“Er, is there something you needed?” Ikael ventured after a moment.

Thancred seemed to deliberate something, before frowning slightly and saying, “No, I suppose there’s nothing I’m really doing here, is there?” He jumped to his feet after that strange statement, nodded to Ikael, and left.

Ikael felt a wave of… _something_ wash over him, and he hunched his shoulders, trying desperately to ignore it. He wasn’t… he wasn’t going to be—

_Gods, no wonder, if you’re that clingy._

—Thancred owed him nothing. No one did. But… it felt like—

He really wanted—

No, gods, he didn’t deserve—he shouldn’t need—it wasn’t normal. Why was he being so selfish? He had the Scions, he had a few scattered friends outside of them, he kept in friendly contact with them. So why did his stomach feel so hollow?

Ugh. He was being pathetic. He curled up on the ground, hunched his back, drew his knees up and buried his head in them. He would wait this out; he’d get over it soon, probably.

But—honestly. It didn’t happen to anyone else. Why him? Oversensitive, clingy bastard.

He felt his breathing hitch. He burrowed further into his knees, tightening his arms. He’d stay like this until he got over it.

(Gods, he really, _really_ wanted a hug.)

~*~

“Ikael?”

Ikael automatically stumbled to his feet, startled. A few yalms away, Thancred was staring at him, frowning.

“Thancred! I—I was just thinking, uh,” His voice sounded thick. He cleared his throat. “I should… I should probably… go somewhere.” He was mumbling, he knew, dragging his gaze down as he talked. “I mean, I… it’s probably for the best. To spend some time, ah… away. Kugane has samurais; I thought…”

He thought he could go and train with them, learn their ways, he was going to say. Because their fighting style interested him. He would go to Kugane and learn how they thought, because he believed the samurais’ unique discipline would align with his chakras in a new and…

He had a formulated response. He had worked out what to say. He said, “Uh, swords, and… you know? It would be interesting, I mean. To, um.” The lump in his throat was making it hard for him to get any more words out. He blinked, rapidly, because his vision had started to blur—in fact, his voice was far too shaky to make any sort of sense, and why was he mumbling? It shouldn’t be so hard to speak properly.

“I-I-I…” Why was he stuttering? Why were his hands shaking so violently? This was hardly an upsetting conversation. Why couldn’t he—

“Have you been crying?” Thancred said softly.

 _Fuck_.

At those words, Ikael’s remaining, pitiful resistance crumbled, and he turned away with a hiccupping gasp. He lifted a trembling hand to his mouth to cover it, inhaling raggedly through the gaps in his fingers.

He heard Thancred curse quietly, before he said, “I apologize, that was—untactful of me. I should have—” Ikael sniffled sharply, breathing getting shakier, and Thancred swore again, then started moving about rapidly. “Ah—Twelve, I knew I should have stayed. I just had a thought to get you some food, that was all—Here.”

Suddenly, a handkerchief was being offered to him, and Ikael blinked at it in bemusement before he hesitantly accepted it.

“Th-thank you,” he stammered, dabbing at his eyes. “I-I’m s-sorry, this is p-pathet—”

“Hush, now,” Thancred interrupted gently. “You are allowed to have a negative reaction to things, my friend. It is mine own fault for leaving you alone.”

Ikael became aware of a hand resting easily on his back. “Y-you don’t have to d-do that,” he said, shrugging it off. “I-I shouldn’t need… anything. I… I’m pathetic, th-this is childish…” A sob rose in his throat, choking off any more words.

“You most assuredly are _not_ pathetic.” Thancred sounded stern. Ikael dared a look at him—he was frowning. Ikael quickly ducked his head back down.

“This is not more than what you should want for,” Thancred continued, and placed his arm firmly around Ikael’s shoulders. Ikael shuddered, and tried not to melt into the touch. “It is the bare minimum, I would say. And,” his tone softened, “Far less than you deserve.”

He was so _close_. Ikael wanted to turn to him and beg for an embrace, feel safe and secure and… and…

“I… I can’t ask—I-I… I can’t—” he gasped, “L-Lyse was right, I’m so _c-clingy_ and _stupid_ a-and—”

“Lyse was not in _any way_ right,” Thancred said sharply. “You are _not_ clingy. You are not _stupid_. You are… you are wonderful, and kind, and,” This was too much. Thancred’s voice was too gentle. _It was too much—_ “Compassionate, and caring, and that is _not_ a weakness. I think the _least_ you should get is the right to ask for hugs, of all harmless things.”

Ikael sobbed.

Thancred made a consoling noise, and then pulled him into his chest, and Ikael lacked the strength to resist, and the hug felt so _good_ and gods, _he really needed this_ and he hoped it would last forever.

“Don’t go,” he hiccupped into Thancred’s collarbone. “P-Please, just one more minute.”

He felt Thancred’s arms tighten around him. “We will stay like this for as long as you wish,” Thancred said softly, “And then a little longer.”

Ikael found himself making an odd noise somewhere between a laugh and another hiccup, and rested his forehead against Thancred’s neck. Thancred smelled like warmth and quickness and steel, and a little bit of sweat. Ikael closed his eyes.

“Thank you,” he murmured a few minutes later once his breathing had calmed, and the hand that had been gently rubbing his back paused for a moment before resuming.

“Do not feel the need to thank me,” Thancred replied, keeping his voice low. “I am but acting as a decent friend should. And… Ikael. We are friends, alright? I… don’t mean to pry, but what Lyse said—”

“’S okay,” Ikael mumbled. “I… had a chat with her when we were in the Steppes a while back. I had been feeling a bit… down, and uh, I suppose that influenced how I was thinking.” He let out a small sigh. He had been missing his soul crystal, the half that Myste had taken, and without it all of his darker thoughts were left without an anchor, but he wasn’t about to tell Thancred that.

“Ah.” Thancred was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “She shouldn’t have said any of that.”

“It’s alright,” Ikael said, “She was angry.”

“Even so.” Ikael pulled back a little at the tone of Thancred’s voice, glancing up at his face. He was frowning. “There are some things that people let slip when they are angry, and then there are some things that are personal, and shouldn’t be shared. I know she apologized, and you don’t mind, but…” His frown deepened. “To me, that would have been crossing a line.”

“She didn’t apologize,” Ikael said before he could stop himself. Thancred went still. Ikael hastily amended, “I cut her off. It’s okay—”

“Ikael,” Thancred said, voice nearly a growl, “Sometimes I think your forgiving nature lets people take a little too much advantage of you.”

Ikael hugged him tighter, rested his head on Thancred’s chest in an attempt to calm him some. “Thancred, it’s _fine_ ,” he said mollifyingly. “I am sure she…”

He hesitated.

He _felt_ Thancred grit his teeth. “You are sure she what?” Thancred murmured, voice very, very even.

(He still held Ikael in an embrace. He was warm.)

Ikael sighed. “I don’t—know. She seemed like she regretted what she said. I don’t think…. She is not a cruel person, Thancred. I don’t…” He trailed off.

He ducked his head down, took a deep breath. Thancred did not say anything.

“Do you think she meant it?” he whispered.

Thancred’s arms tightened around him. “No,” he said firmly.

Ikael wanted to ask if he was sure.

Thancred said, “She did not mean a word.”

“You could tell?” Ikael asked, hopeful.

A pause, and then Thancred said, “She just said something she knew would upset you—she did not care if it was true or not. Whatever she said to you in the Steppes when you confided in her, Ikael—that I would put more trust in.”

Ikael closed his eyes. Then he breathed out, slowly exhaling the remainder of his grief.

“I’m sorry I’m so insecure,” he said softly.

“It is in everyone’s nature to be insecure,” Thancred replied. “But if you ever feel like you are being affected strongly by something conceivably small? Come talk to me. I will listen.”

Ikael rubbed his head briefly under Thancred’s jaw. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“I do not want you to feel lonely,” Thancred said quietly. “It is a terrible feeling, to feel as if you have no one. You of all people should never be subject to it.”

“That feeling hounds me,” Ikael confessed. “It is a constant. Whenever I look back, whenever I take a break, it is there.”

Thancred held him tightly for a moment. “You have me,” he said.  

Ikael’s heart was floating with warmth. “And you me,” he replied, earnest. “I would do anything for—any of you. Please. And all of this means,” he inhaled sharply, “A lot to me. Thank you.”

“You already said that,” Thancred teased after a brief moment, “Sap.”

Ikael simply smiled—he had felt Thancred swallow around a dry throat, heard his heartbeat quicken briefly. Thancred was as much of a sap as he was.

“I am not the only one who is being kitten,” Ikael shot back.

“Oh? I half expect you to start purring.”

 Ikael grinned. There was much comfort to be found in easy banter. “My purring is reserved for… _special_ occasions, and I don’t think you qualify.”

“That is far more information than I am comfortable with,” Thancred said.

“Are you sure?” Ikael asked, blinking up at him innocently. “You mean you _don’t_ want to hear about proper techniques for giving—”

“There is crass, and then there is you,” Thancred interrupted him loudly. “It’s a wonder you haven’t scarred Alphinaud for life yet.”

“ _Me?_ You should hear yourself sometimes!”

Thancred stepped back half a fulm to put a hand to his chest. “I am a teacher in the ways of adulthood,” he said.

“From what I’ve heard from the twins, all you do is say something ‘sickening’ and then leave.”

“I believe in the impact of my tutelage.”


	4. gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first part of this is a very very lovely writing gift from the very very lovely [ CorsetJinx ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CorsetJinx/pseuds/CorsetJinx)!!!! i love it. you love it! so i added to it c:  
> (they wrote the part until the break, mine is after)

“You’re certain that this is alright?” Thancred asks with some concern, eyeing the small pile of wrapped goodies. He’s counted two meat pies and a rainbow of delicate macarons, and that’s not including the addition of three ether potions and a hard-won elixir.

Luli barely glances his way as she gingerly eases the lid off the stewpot she’s spent the last half-hour guarding. Stirring its contents, she breathes in the fragrant steam before reaching for the cilantro.

“Of course.” Gently scattering a pinch of the dried herb into the pot, she offered him a smile. “I’ve seen him running around Rhalgr’s Reach often enough. He’s got the look of a monk - and monks have big appetites. I don’t mind sharing the extra I make with a fellow adventurer. It’ll go bad before any of the others come back, anyway.”

Thancred slowly nods, watching her put the cilantro back into the spice rack along her belt and carefully inching his hand towards the unattended plate of tarts cooling next to him. He’s just gotten one between his fingers when the lalafell turns to glare at him, the look on her face promising that he’ll soon regret his attempt at theft if he doesn’t let go of the tart.

He drops it back onto the plate, backing away with both hands raised. “Sorry.”

The paladin of Anemone’s group stares him down for a moment longer, calculating, before turning away. “Oh, and Thancred?”

“Yes, Luli?” He answers sweetly, popping half of a different tart into his mouth. Chewing quickly, he licks the sugar from his lips just as she turns her head to regard him again. Trying to look the very picture of innocence, he smiles as charmingly as he can with half a stolen tart behind his back.

“If anything goes missing from your friend’s care package, you’re going hunting with Dusk for the next three weeks. Through the swamp.” She smiles at the look on his face, sweet as spun sugar.

Thancred swallows, forcing the stiff muscles in his neck to loosen enough for him to nod. “Understood.” He assures in a small voice, carefully backing away from her workstation. As soon as he’s out of her scope of attention he hastily downs the rest of the tart and searches for something to drink while the finishing touches to Ikael’s gift are added.

~*~

Thancred knocks on Ikael’s door, not waiting for a response before entering.

“I come bearing gifts,” he says, carefully holding his parcel in his hands. He has received very specifics instructions to keep it upright, and does not particularly want to face anyone’s resulting wrath.

Ikael, sitting in his bed holding what appears to be—is that Thancred’s poetry book? Er, no matter—glances up. He tries to say something, croaks out a strange noise, clears his throat, and tries again.

“I don’t want any more unsolicited ‘relationship’ advice, thanks,” he says. He squints. “What are you holding? You smell like sweet tarts.”

“I am going to pretend you did not just say that, because that is truly frightening,” Thancred says, sitting on the bed. “And _you_ smell disgusting, so while you eat this— _slowly_ —I am going to open a window.”

Ikael brightens up and puts what is definitely Thancred's poetry book down—he hadn’t gotten very far in, from the looks of it. “You got me food?” he asks.

Thancred gets up to open the window—it really does smell in here. “I have requested from a friend what appears to be enough supplements and sweets to feed an army, yes. She was very generous; doubtless she observed you rescuing starving orphans from a burning building, or some such act.”

“ _Oh.”_ He can hear Ikael’s soft intake of surprise behind him as he opens the box. “This is… _Thancred_.”

“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”

“No—come here. Come.”

Thancred, somewhat nervously, goes back to Ikael, who looks at him with shining eyes.

“Tell your friend thanks,” Ikael says whole-heartedly. “This is so _lovely_. No—come here.” He beckons with his hand, and Thancred begrudgingly crawls closer to him.

Ikael gives him a long hug. His strength is recovering well—that is good. Thancred begins to pull away, embarrassed by being the focus of Ikael’s gratefulness, but then Ikael tugs him in a bit and kisses him on the cheek.

Thancred is definitely feeling flustered now. He did not do _that_ much.

“Thank you,” Ikael murmurs, a smile lifting his eyes, and Thancred nods briefly, then prepares to make some smart remark. He opens his mouth. Ikael says,

“Oh, and give your friend some of my leftover cake for whatever you stole from her, yeah?”

Thancred's mouth closes with a snap. Oh.

~*~


	5. oh no, fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a fun little prompt fill of sorts. I've always said this happened at some point...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ([ "flowing fast"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13481628) happens a little after this)

Ikael was screeching, running around in frantic circles. Alphinaud was shaking his head in his hands, and Alisaie was doing absolutely nothing while the Warrior of Light streaked around like a blazing madman.

“Stay _still_!” Y’shtola barked, aiming with her cane and sending a wave of water crashing towards Ikael. It missed. He kept screaming. The smell of burning fur started to fill the room.

“You are just making it worse,” Y’shtola scolded, unconsciously wrinkling her nose. Ikael screamed back at her in response, whipping by, his tail a bright streak of black and brown and… fire.

“Thancred!” Alphinaud yelled, and Thancred, having just stepped out into the room to enquire about what was smelling so _horrendous_ , froze.

“What,” he said. He started to take in the scene. Ikael was moving… very fast.

“Catch him!” Alphinaud said, just as Ikael whizzed by. Without thinking, Thancred stuck out his leg.

Ikael’s screaming reached a higher pitch as he tripped. Thancred quickly caught him, and was immediately assaulted by an armful of squirming, burning, panicking miqo’te.

“Good, now hold him,” Y’shtola muttered, readying her cane again. Thancred couldn’t hear her very well because Ikael was shrieking in his face.

Nothing happened after at least two seconds. Ikael started struggling harder, pupils blown wide in fright. He pulled back his lips and hissed at Thancred—actually _hissed_. As he was still making an ungodly amount of noise, the combined effect was rather strange.

“ _Y’shtola_ ,” Thancred said urgently. He dodged a swipe to the face.

“Be ready!” Y’shtola called, and Thancred did not get a chance to respond as he was promptly drenched in a dozen buckets’ worth of water. Directly into his ear, Ikael let out a panicked squeal.

“ _There_ you go.” Y’shtola sounded satisfied. She rested her hands on the top of her cane. “See; all you had to do was stop _moving_ for a second.”

She appeared to be addressing Ikael. He replied, “ _Hhhh!_ ”

Thancred dared a look at his tail. It was…

“Oh,” he said, peering at it.

Ikael immediately looked down. He screamed a little.

“It’ll grow… back?” Thancred assured him, shooting a questioning glance at Y’shtola, who shrugged.

“See? Y’shtola says it’ll grow back,” Thancred told Ikael anyway.

Ikael looked at him. Thancred smiled.

Thankfully for everyone involved, the fur did, in fact, grow back. Eventually.

~*~


	6. panic

There are—people. There are so many people around, all around him, and Ikael—there are _so_ many, pressing into him, milling about. _So many,_ and none of them are his friends.

They speak. They make noise. They talk, they walk, they _smell_. They’re with their own—they laugh, they chat, they buy things, they’re _everywhere_ and they’re close by, moving, like rocks—and Ikael is _lost._

He wants to… punch something. Maybe? He does not know. He feels… so restless. So…

There are _so many_ people—

He is breathing faster, now, into his own skin. Into his heart, his lungs, his soul— _Where are his friends? Have they left him where are they is he alone in this cascade of people and smells and sounds and blocked-out shapes where are they WHERE ARE THEY—_

“Ikael!” A hand on his shoulder.

He startles, badly, whipping around, but he latches onto Thancred's voice—he recognizes him—Thancred is smiling in an absent-minded sort of way, head cocked.

“There you are,” he says. “Ah, I thought we’d lost you! It’s hard to keep track of everyone when there’s a festival going on, isn’t it?”

There is a noise. Ikael stares at him, at the fall of his hair and the tilt of his smile and the texture of his skin

“Ikael?” Thancred starts to frown, and his fingers tighten on Ikael’s shoulder. He peers at Ikael, gradually.

“You…” Thancred says. His eyes dart to Ikael’s, and slowly, he brings up a hand to push aside Ikael’s bangs. His eyes flutter. Bend down.

Realization trickles onto Thancred's face like sweet water. He puts a hand to Ikael’s chest briefly, then takes his arm and starts to walk. “Come,” he says easily. Ikael does not know anything but to follow.

Thancred leads him to somewhere with no people, where they are in the shade and alone. Alone with each other. He turns to Ikael and puts Ikael’s hand on his heart.

“Breathe,” he instructs. “With me. Can you do that?”

Ikael wishes the noise would stop. It sounds like desperation. He curls his fingers.

“No,” Thancred says, gently taking his hand and straightening it. “Feel my breaths, all right?” He places it back. “In,” His chest expands, “Out.” It contracts.

The noise stretches out oddly. Oh, Ikael realizes. He’s making it.

“There we go,” says Thancred. “Easy does it. Focus on breathing, hm?”

Ikael nods, vigorously. Thancred touches his jaw to get him to stop.

“CanIcomecloser,” Ikael says.

“Pardon?” Thancred tilts his head forward. “Sorry; didn’t quite catch that.”

Ikael wants to _tug_ , but that’s not right. “Closer,” he mumbles. “Please?”

“Oh.” Thancred doesn’t sound upset. “Of course, Ikael.”

Ikael immediately presses directly into him (Thancred makes a somewhat surprised noise), and shimmies down a little until he can hear Thancred's heartbeat. It is instantly calming, once he goes quiet enough to listen.

He hears _scratch scratch shuffle_ and reaches up, moves Thancred's hand from the top of his head to behind his ear. He had remembered, if a bit incorrectly. The thought is nice.

After what might be a hundred heartbeats of this, Thancred asks, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

The word “no” immediately comes to the tip of Ikael’s tongue, but he… considers. There are different kinds of want, he knows now. Does he feel like he should burden Thancred with his thoughts? No. Does he… does he _want_ to tell him? … Yes.

“I…” Ikael says. “Maybe? I don’t know.”

“That’s fine,” Thancred replies. “There is no pressure.”

Something occurs to Ikael. He says, “Uh.”

“What is it?” Thancred has nice hands. Ikael likes their texture.

Ikael breathes into the fabric of Thancred's shirt. He is wearing linen today. A good choice, considering the sun. Maybe they can nap later, Ikael thinks.

“… Y’shtola,” Ikael says eventually. “I want to talk to her.” She would understand.

“Okay,” Thancred agrees. “She is back with Krile—I left them to go find you.”

“Just you and her,” Ikael mumbles to Thancred’s chest. Not Krile.

“Of course,” Thancred says, understanding him somehow. It is nice.

It is only him and Thancred, now. He is pressing into one person, but that person is a friend, and that friend came back to find him. They are making very little noise.

Ikael is happy.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aiming to start developing ikael and thancred's relationship a lil :>


	7. whisper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short drabble prompt #1. with doodle!  
> (Prompt: things you said on the linkpearl at 4am - Ikael and Thancred)

 

  


 

“ _Thancred?_ ” The word is a whisper, drifting into his ear and chasing at the heels of sleep before he can succumb to it.

Preceded by, of course, an obnoxious dinging noise. Thancred is awake before Ikael even says his name.

“Ghmph?” Thancred mumbles, frowning and shifting into a somewhat seated position. His blanket falls softly to his waist. From outside the window, moonlight spills into his room, peering at his face through his hair. Thancred jerks his head down so it can stop.

“Are you awake?” Ikael asks, still whispering.

“Now I am,” Thancred says at a normal volume. Why hadn’t he taken out his linkpearl before he slept?

“… Oh,” says Ikael. He sounds guilty, and Thancred sighs. He pulls together some semblance of sympathy—the best he can at, hells, what time is it?—and asks, “What is it?”

“Just,” says Ikael, and then nothing else. An unsurmountable time passes in silence. Thancred blinks slowly into the darkness, feeling it creep into his consciousness.

He is just beginning to drift off to sleep again when Ikael finally speaks up once more.

“I can’t sleep,” he says. Thancred shakes his head firmly to keep himself awake. “The… the blanket,” Ikael continues. “It’s not…”

He says nothing more. Thancred takes a quick guess as to whether that is his entire statement, or if he is pausing again, and decides that it doesn’t matter.

“The blanket isn’t what?” he asks, voice still thick with sleep.

“… It’s scratchy,” Ikael says softly. “I woke up and I can’t… it’s bothering me.”

His blanket is scratchy. All right, then. Thancred is out of bed in… time, and he isn’t quite aware of what he is doing as he drags his own blanket across the floor to the door. Still, at least he is doing _something_.

“’m coming, hold on,” Thancred says. Ikael breathes his thanks, sounding relieved, and Thancred scrubs a palm across his eye before leaving his room.

~*~


	8. understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt #2, also with doodle!  
> (prompt: Things you said I wouldn’t understand - Y'shtola and Ikael

 

 

“Because it doesn’t _work_ that way,” Y’shtola finally explodes, anger and desperation and frustration all crashing out of her all at once, finding the cracks in her façade and blowing it open. “Life does not work that way, Ikael! Things will not simply fall into place because _you_ will it so! We can _lose_. People can die! I know you are the Warrior of Light, but that does not mean that the rest of us are invincible.”

Ikael looks at her calmly, watching her harsh breaths, waiting until her shoulders stop shaking, until her ears unflatten, until she closes her eyes and makes an effort to calm her breathing. He watches, and waits, and says nothing.

When she has relaxed some, when she can speak without losing her voice to a treacherous tremble, she _breathes_ , and says, “I am sorry. Such an outburst is unworthy of you. Or me.”

He steps forward, makes sure to wait until her sightless eyes drift to his. He says, “Can I hug you?”

She seems taken aback for an instant. But she nods, and replies, “You may.” Her tone is resigned.

He does so, envelops her in his arms until he can smell the softness of her hair, until his lips are by her ear. Then he says, “I know.”

She goes strangely still. He continues, “You might all die. _I_ might die. I might fail, we might all fail and unleash unto Eorzea another Calamity. But until then, what good does it do us to think that way?”

She reaches up to his shoulder, and her fingers flutter, but do not push or pull—after a second of indecision, she simply lays them down. Ikael keeps talking.

“There is no benefit to only allow ourselves to consider only the best possible outcome of things, no. But in thinking of failure, is there not hope? Hope that we can once again pull through, despite all odds? That we can face the worst enemy and be scared, be _terrified_ of the consequences, but still prevail?”

Y’shtola bends her head down, into the joint of his neck. He feels her eyelashes close. She seems to be thinking.

She does not answer him, but… she does not need to.

“I seem to have misjudged you,” she says at last. She sounds weary, but almost… relieved, in an abstract way. “I am… so used to it. Being the one who has to face the grim reality of our decisions at every turn, ever cost. But I am not, am I? You are there at the front lines, and I was a fool to think you could not see what was before your very eyes. I am sorry.”

He smiles, and nudges her hair with his nose. “’Tis not your fault,” he says, “You have much to worry about. But chin up, yeah? All is never lost, not until the last of our people are ashes in the wind.”

She chuckles, a dry sound. “You have an interesting outlook on things, that is for sure,” she says. “I.. am sorry that so few can see it. But that is the way you like it, is it not?”

He shrugs, and lets her go. “I’m mostly just here to cook for you,” he says.

She laughs. After a moment of consideration, he joins in.

~*~


	9. (dis)honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> companion piece to "understanding" (previous chapter)

Ikael watches Y’shtola as she crushes dust into a salve, wondering briefly whether she can tell when it is done by its texture or by its smell. Her tail is swaying freely and slowly; a relaxed pose, and her ears twitch occasionally at a passing noise, but she does not seem bothered.

Good.

He would feel bad, in quiet, dishonest way, but he does not. Nor does he feel bitter; she had needed him to tell her what he had, and he would help her, in any way he can. He is genuinely glad that he is able to give her peace.

Nevertheless, there is a soft lie that was spoken into the wisps of her hair, a beat of insincerity in his heart when he thinks on his own words pulled from her fingertips on his shoulder. He is their front line, yes, and he holds hope despite that, yes, but... he is not Alphinaud.

Still, he is happy to tell her what she needs to hear.

He turns away with a small smile. Perhaps one day, he thinks. Perhaps one day they will all be ground into the dust and see the world as he sees it on his darkest nights. He fervently hopes that that day will never come, but…

The Warrior of Light has no place in his life for blind idealism.

~*~


	10. bullshit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by my dog

_“Meow,”_ said the cat.

Thancred glanced down in some surprise. He hadn’t noticed it at his feet. It was a small thing, black with a brown-tipped tail, and it was looking straight up at him.

“Why hello there,” Thancred said. The cat’s ears perked up.

 _“MRrrowr,”_ it said enthusiastically, and started rubbing against his calf.

Thancred stared at it, nonplussed, and hesitantly bent down. When he was kneeling next to the cat, it put its paws on his thigh and headbutted him gently.

Thancred slowly reached out to pet it—cats were far more Ikael’s area than his—and it ducked its head under his hand.

“Oh, you’re a sweet thing, are you?” Thancred murmured, scratching behind soft ears. It started purring.

“Too bad I can’t take you home with me,” Thancred said. The cat might have an owner—its fur was fairly smooth and shiny, and it looked strong and well-fed—but even if it didn’t, Thancred's nutkin would… not approve.

It might have been his words, or it might have been some sort of feline whim, because as soon as he had finished that sentence, the cat leapt onto his leg and started to climb up his arm.

“Hey,” said Thancred. The cat wound itself around his neck. “Hey now, no. No.”

“Mgrrr,” grumbled the cat.

“I can’t actually take you home with me,” Thancred said, feeling somewhat ridiculous. He was talking to a _cat_. It couldn’t understand him.

The cat rubbed its head against his cheek. Thancred's resistance slowly melted.

“I really cannot take you,” he mumbled, scratching its chin. It purred at him.

“I don’t know what to feed you, or how to take care of you,” Thancred continued, still completely lost, “Or… even if you’re male or female, actually…”

He reached up to carefully lift the cat from around his shoulders to check, but claws sank into his skin as soon as he got close, and the cat hissed.

“Alright, alright,” Thancred muttered. The cat mewled at him, and flicked its tail into Thancred's nose.

“What’s your name, hm?” Thancred said, looking down at its face. Feline green eyes blinked slowly at him. For some reason, “Ikael” popped into his head. The cat was strangely affectionate and…. No. He couldn’t name his cat—

Not _his_ cat. _A_ cat. Right.

“How do you like… ‘Leaki?’” Thancred asked anyway.

The cat stared at him. Just as Thancred was certain it was about to call him an idiot, someone called out, “Thancred!”

The cat leaped down from his neck, momentarily sinking its claws into him—Thancred might have let out a startled yelp at this—and circled around him, meowing loudly. Thancred stared at it. Was this normal behaviour? He’d have to ask Ikael.

“Stay right there,” Alisaie ordered, running up. “Thancred—hold him.”

 _Him_ , then. Thancred obeyed, reaching down and picking the cat up. Wait. Why was Alisaie detaining a _cat_?

“Why are you—” Thancred began.

“Did you find him?” cried Alphinaud’s voice, and then the boy himself was rushing towards them, cheeks pink with exertion. Thancred stared.

“Oh, good,” Alphinaud said once he had reached them. He was panting, leaning on his knees. “Ah, Thancred, would you mind holding him still while I cast the spell?”

Thancred frowned, pulling the cat close to his chest. It rubbed its head against him. “Why do you want to cast a spell on him?” Thancred asked, still utterly confused. “What did he do?”

“He turned into a _cat_ ,” Alisaie said promptly, and crossed her arms.

Thancred gaped. What—

“What,” he said to the cat. It stared at him with green eyes that were suddenly very, _very_ familiar.

“What in… the _hells_?” Thancred said.

“Meow,” said the cat.

“Right there. Now brace yourselves!” Alphinaud said out of the blue, and then suddenly Thancred felt a burst of aether blast him nearly out of his body.

When his vision cleared and the ringing in his ears stopped, Thancred was left staring dazedly at someone who was very much not a cat. Well, at least not _entirely_.

Ikael grinned at him. “Thancred!” he said happily.

Thancred said, “What the f—”

“Put some _clothes_ on, please,” Alisaie begged, shielding her eyes. “I do not want to be even further scarred for life than I already am.”

Without breaking his stare, Thancred threw his coat over Ikael. It mostly covered him.

“Thank you for your help, Thancred,” said Alphinaud, and bowed. Thancred kept looking at Ikael.

“‘Leaki?’ Really?” said Ikael.

“You owe me,” Thancred told him, “An entire round of drinks. And an explanation.”

“Done,” said Ikael, grinning. His tail swung lazily from side to side, and Thancred's coat started to fall.

“Oh gods,” Alisaie muttered. “You know what? I think I’ll join you.”

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's up to you whether this is canon or not  
> my hands are clean


	11. take a break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you gotta, sometimes.

_And of course, since the decline in population of its natural predator, the production of rolanberries in the northernmost corners of the Shroud has increased dramatically. It is estimated that around 12 000 crops of rolanberries are grown per year, although around a quarter of the yield is usually eaten by…_

Thancred knuckles at his eyes tiredly. The words had started to blur together on the page a good bell ago, and the urge to simply faceplant into the textbook and fall asleep like that had followed not long after. But he needs to… study this, for…

For…?

For Tataru—right. She had wanted Thancred to send her…

“Thancred, there you are,” says a friendly, comfortable voice. “Oh, you poor thing—you look ready to pass out! I’ve been sent to you because apparently you are ‘overworking yourself again, like an idiot,’ although she used a… less nice word.”

Thancred squints at him and grunts. Ikael is holding a small platter, upon which rests a plate of cookies and what looks like two steaming mugs of… something.

He doesn’t seem to sense Thancred's general grouchy mood, and slides quickly into his personal space, setting the platter down on the table.

“Wow,” he says, peering at Thancred's book, “That looks extraordinarily boring and dull! Good thing I’m going to force you to leave it alone.”

“Ikael,” Thancred groans, “I need to look at this. For… for Tataru, I think.”

“Mmhm!” Ikael says, and flips the textbook shut before Thancred even knows what is going on. “It can wait. She’ll understand.”

“Eh… hey!” Thancred reacts a bit belatedly, frowning and swatting Ikael’s hand away. “She… needs the information tonight! For… something. I don’t know… the time differences are…” He begins to thumb through the pages of the book semi-urgently, looking for where he had left off. She needs it for… a recipe, or… something about someone named Hancock…

Ikael reaches down and pulls the book from Thancred's grip with embarrassing ease.

“You can do this tomorrow,” he says, pushing it to the far end of the table. Thancred stares morosely. “Right now, you are going to sit and eat cookies and drink hot cocoa with me.”

“Hot... cocoa,” Thancred repeats blankly.

“Hot cocoa,” Ikael agrees, shifting closer to Thancred and handing him a mug, which he takes without thinking.

“A dear friend of mine used to make it when I was stressing out,” Ikael says, leaning into him. The words are quiet but fond, shared just between the two of them. “It was… a nice gesture. I made him bake with me one time, and then cookies got added too. So here.”

Thancred drops his head onto Ikael’s shoulder, and takes a sip of the cocoa. It is sweet, and sends warmth through him. He reaches for a cookie—they are soft and crumbly, and not too sugary, and… yes, of course they taste good. Ikael _did_ make them, after all.

“Alright,” he mumbles, feeling his eyes close. He can afford to take… a _small_ break, if Ikael insists. “I’ll keep you company.”

“ _You’re_ the one keeping _me_ company, yes of course.” Ikael sounds amused, but Thancred cannot be bothered to think of why. Ikael is warm and friendly and smells like sweet things, and Thancred is… so tired.

He manages to finish his drink, mostly, and then he noses into Ikael’s sleeve (the fact that he’s wearing a sleeved shirt would otherwise be alarming, but Thancred is in no condition to care), and Ikael pulls his head down, and then Thancred is being petted, and held, and treated a bit like a cat, which is weird, but nice.

“You can nap,” Ikael says softly, taking Thancred's mug from his fingers. “I will wake you when you need to go to bed, alright?”

Thancred is already drifting off. He feels a kiss being pressed to his head, and that is the last thing he is aware of before he falls asleep.

~*~


	12. ribbon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: dare you to take the ribbon off Y'shtola's outfit and wear it for a day without getting caught.  
> (also including a dodle)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ([ "The back of the story"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13565067) happens around this time)

“A-and, you know, I-I was just feeling,” a sniff, “a bit… um, well.” Ikael glanced down, toeing at the ground. “So I thought… i-if you don’t mind, of course. I don’t want to intrude—”

“Ikael.” Y’shtola’s face softened. He felt a misty surge of hope—she looked sympathetic. Maybe she’d say yes?

“You do not have to trouble yourself so,” Y’shtola continued, and held out her arms. Ikael did an inner fist-pump. _Yes._ “If you are feeling so, I will not refuse you something as simple as a hug.”

Ikael sniffed again. Had he done that too recently? No matter. He stepped forward, and Y’shtola embraced him…

There. Now what had Thancred said? Use two fingers, and don’t shift the weight of your hand…

He could feel the silk of the ribbon. He tugged, slowly, _carefully_ —

_There! Success._

He pulled away from Y’shtola, using the motion of swiping at his eyes to quickly slide it into his sleeve. He held his breath, prayed she wouldn’t notice…

Y’shtola pressed her hand against his arm, and he had a small heart attack, staring at her with wide eyes that he didn’t have to try too hard to fake. _Oh no_. She said,

“Do not be hesitant to come to me if you need something, my friend.”

And that was _it_ , Ikael was _safe—_

He escaped unscathed, inwardly cackling in glee.

~*~

Ikael was wearing her ribbon.

She hadn’t notice him take it from her—impressive, and no doubt Thancred’s fault—but she could most definitely sense her own aether drifting from his person. He had wrapped it around his armband—apparently he still hadn’t learned how to accessorize properly—and seemed to think that because she couldn’t _see_ it, she didn’t know it was there.

Ah, it was a miracle he managed to kill any primals, really.

Still, she let him have his little victory. Unbeknownst to Ikael, she was not entirely untrained in the ways of picking pockets—or clothing—either. Thancred had _some_ uses.

She smiled to herself. Her time would come.

~*~

 


	13. minor inconveniences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I mean, it would be a shame not to take advantage of a cat-race. come on.

It was because of the loud _thud_ that Thancred finally managed to find who he was looking for, although the long string of expletives following it certainly helped. He hurried to the noise, rounding the corner, and came across a rather frustrated Ikael.

Frustrated, it seemed, because he could not… reach a book?

Thancred glanced at the thick tome fallen on the ground, glanced at Ikael’s tiptoes and outstretched fingertips, glanced higher to what he was trying to reach and how far away it was, and, despite his best effort, began to laugh.

Ikael _immediately_ turned around to glare at him, sinking back on his heels. Thancred tried to hide his chuckles behind his hand, but took one look at Ikael’s face and failed utterly.

“Yeah, yeah, yack it up,” Ikael muttered, narrowing his eyes at him. His tail swished rapidly from side to side in irritation. Thancred paid little heed to the warning, and kept laughing.

Ikael huffed, then went back to trying to get his book, apparently adamant to ignore Thancred completely. He gave a little… hop. Thancred laughed harder.

“Ah…” he murmured a good minute or so later, wiping at his eyes, “Thank you for that. Actually, my furred feline friend, I have come in search of you! Y’shtola refuses to help me.”

“Cat problems, I’m assuming from that terrible alliteration?” Ikael muttered. “Grab another miqo’te by their tail, why don’t you? I’m busy.”

He jumped up and made a small swipe to knock the book down. He missed by about an ilm.

Thancred stepped forward and tugged cheekily at Ikael’s tail. It was a very, _very_ quick, light gesture. Nevertheless, Ikael spun around, expression semi-feral.

“You like to play with fire, don’t you, rogue?” he hissed. “Just because you’re _three_ ilms taller than me, you think you’re _so_ much better than—”

Thancred reached up and plucked the book off the shelf with minimum difficulty. He held it out to Ikael with an amused smile.

Ikael squinted at him, then snatched the book.

“I’ll remember the tail-pulling,” he warned in a stage-whisper.

“I’m sure,” Thancred said. He reached forward to ruffle Ikael’s hair, making sure to curl his fingers around his ear in a brief scratch.

It seemed to do the trick, because Ikael melted out of whatever belligerent, height-challenged mood he had been sulking in. He grumbled a little, but relaxed his shoulders, uncurling his tail.

“What do you need help with?” he muttered to Thancred's wrist.

Thancred beamed at him. “Your coeurl is attempting to hunt down and eat my nutkin again,” he said brightly.

Ikael perked up. “Ellie’s here?” he asked.

“Please tell her to stop,” Thancred said.

“Natural selection,” Ikael returned, tapping his nose. Thancred pouted.

“Alright, _fine,_ ” Ikael sighed overdramatically, and Thancred scratched him again as a thank you.

“You can’t keep doing that every time you want something,” Ikael mumbled as Thancred started to tug him to where ‘Ellie’ was terrifying his poor nutkin well into its grave. “It won’t work.”

Ikael’s tail was brushing against Thancred's leg. Thancred could _swear_ it was looking for one of its own kind.

“Of course,” he murmured to Ikael, bumping their shoulders (He had to lean down a little to do so. Ikael didn’t seem to notice). “And you _don’t_ like napping at the most random times of day and you don’t curl into an _adorable_ little ball when you do so.”

“I’m always adorable,” Ikael said, chin up.

Thancred grinned and reached down to gently stroke his tail. “Yes,” he said as Ikael trilled a little, “You are.”

~*~


	14. selfishness

_Please…_

“Yeah?”

 _Oh, good_.

“Ikael? It’s Thancred. Are you… busy?” He did not like how soft and insecure his voice sounded; not because he was speaking to Ikael—he would never mock him—but because it was far, far too honest, leaving him feeling lost and not a bit hollow. Still, hopefully Ikael wouldn’t… he wouldn't mind. Thancred swallowed, waiting patiently for a response.

“Oh! No, we’re not busy. What’s wrong?” Ikael replied. Thancred felt a fleeting pulse of comfort from the gentleness of his voice.

“I just… ‘we?’”

“Y’shtola is with me,” said Ikael. Thancred relaxed. “We’re in the sitting room, if you wish to join us. Or I could come to you if you need to speak in private?”

“No, that be necessary. I… I’ll go to you. Thank you, Ikael.”

“Okay, hurry up now, alright? Come get your hug—you’re worrying me.”

Thancred breathed a laugh, glancing down, and assured Ikael he’d be on his way. Two minutes later he was hesitantly hovering near the sitting room.

“Thancred is here,” he heard Y’shtola mutter quietly as he approached. He peeked in, and spied her… lying on a couch?

“Come in,” said the couch. “You live here too.”

Ah… that was Ikael, hidden from view until Thancred stepped inside. He was sitting with Y’shtola’s legs in his lap, holding what appeared to be a small, white comb.

He was grooming her tail, Thancred realized, suddenly feeling as if he was intruding upon an oddly intimate moment between close friends. He shouldn’t be here—he wasn’t…

“Sit down,” Y’shtola ordered, staring at him with a distinctly unimpressed expression. She didn’t add, _Paint a picture, it’ll last longer_ , but he could feel the words in the air nevertheless.

Thancred obeyed, sitting quickly and tucking his hands underneath his legs. He was content to just stay there for the moment, watching as Ikael ran the comb through Y’shtola’s fur.

“You say you got mud in it?” Ikael said in an undertone, barely loud enough for Thancred to hear, and Y’shtola shrugged.

“I mostly washed it out, but it will mat, I know. ’Tis a pain.”

Ikael made a sympathetic noise. “Mamae has longer fur than I do,” he said, pulling the comb in a careful but firm motion, “But I helped her with her tail often enough. I am glad I can help you.”

“I appreciate it. And Ikael—your fur is shorter. Can it even knot?”

“No, but it gets nasty if I don’t wash it. Dirt and dried mud and even blood, sometimes. And you know it _itches_.”

“Mm. Do you use your hair oils on your tail? Your hair is always so soft—I’d imagine the chemicals are gentle enough.”

“Actually, I do. I dilute it a bit, though. And my hair is like that even when I do not wash it, strangely enough—I do not know how.”

“Thancred,” said Y’shtola, and Thancred gave a little start. He had been content to simply listen to them talk to themselves about things he did not need to relate to. He blinked at Y'shtola rapidly.

“You have not said a single word since you came in,” she said. “And there is room enough on this couch for one more.”

Her tone was… light, almost friendly. Still… Thancred was not…

He shot her a quick smile. “I, ah, would not want to disturb you, my lady. Please, pay me no heed.”

This was their space; he felt like a stranger. Even so, it was gracious of them to allow him to linger.

“No, she’s right." Ikael frowned at him. “Come," he added, beckoning with the comb.

“I…” Thancred stood. “I should… go, really. I do not wish to—”

“Thancred.” That was Y'shtola, who had begun to frown as well. Thancred winced. “Sit. Here,” and she sat up and shifted away from Ikael before patting the space in between them.

Thancred shuffled his feet guiltily. He was making this into a scene—really, there was no need—

“Oh, come on.” Thancred watched with slightly wide eyes as Ikael rose and walked towards him.

Ikael pulled at his wrist, and Thancred let himself be tugged to the couch and gently pushed down onto the cushions. He felt… odd, and maneuverable, like he was a puppet waiting for its strings to be jerked. It was a strange vulnerability, but he trusted his friends, _these two_ , with him. Still…

“I really do not…” Thancred began, and then trailed off, because Ikael was a warm presence at his side and even Y'shtola was looking at him with something of a smile, her hand resting on his arm.

Ikael nosed at his shoulder and hummed, and Y'shtola leaned against him a little, and Thancred found himself giving in to the comfort surrounding him, because it was _nice_ , they were _nice_ , so kind, and…

He closed his eyes. Perhaps… he could afford to be selfish. Once in while.

~*~

 


	15. rose water

Thancred raps on the door to Ikael’s temporary quarters, waiting for the answering “ _Come in!”_ before entering, because he can hear the sound of running water faintly through the walls and has no wish to barge in to the sight of Ikael bare-arsed naked.

Thancred enters, cradling his small tray close to his chest so as not to spill the drinks it is carrying. The bedroom is empty, the sheets messy and haphazardly tossed off the bed, but the door to the ensuite bathing area is ajar, and any noticeable noise of activity is coming from beyond it.

“Ikael?” Thancred calls, poking his head into the bathing area and wrinkling his nose at the smell of lavender steaming lazily in the air. He looks around. What have these Ala Mhigans _given_ Ikael? Thancred barely gets a bed, and Ikael receives an entire suite and a personal heated bathing room complete with scented oils and adjustable temperatures? Not fair.

Well. A _little_ fair.

Ikael himself is fiddling with the knobs of a small separate basin, squinting and occasionally prodding at a bright red crystal. He is wearing but a towel wrapped around his waist, the tip of his tail poking out from the bottom, swaying gently. Thancred wonders briefly and ridiculously if miqo’te cut holes in their towels to allow room for their extra appendage, then shakes his head.

“Thancred!” says Ikael, and turns around with a warm smile. He eyes Thancred's tray and cocks his head curiously. “What brings you here?”

“This place is quite extravagant,” Thancred returns, eyeing the miniature washbasin Ikael has been poking at. “Has the Resistance decided that its efforts are best suited to equipping heroes with… clean water and nice-smelling soaps?”

Ikael laughs, a bit abashedly, and scratches at his ear. “Er… that is our fault, actually,” he says. “Us adventurers, that is. There are a few that have come from Kugane, curious about Eorzea, and… well. One of them has a… _lot_ of money and was quite horrified about our lack of hot springs or public bathing areas, and she offered to get her people to build one… and Lyse _loved_ those in Kugane… Ahem. Long story short, this is a prototype. There is another entrance over there,” he points, “For anyone else to come in. Changing rooms are also near that area if you wish to join me, Thancred—you look like you could use a bath.”

Thancred raises an eyebrow. “I think you should cut holes in your towels,” he says, “So your tail can fit through. It looks odd.”

Ikael blinks at him in confusion, mouth slightly open.

Thancred huffs. “No one asked for _your_ opinion either,” he states.

Ikael gapes at him for a full second before laughing, then reaches for one of the mugs on Thancred's tray. He sniffs at it.

“Tea?” he asks, blowing on it gently before taking a careful sip. “That is sweet of you—no pun intended. Thank you.”

Thancred plucks the remaining mug off the tray and lays it down on a little jut in the wall. He joins Ikael, who has moved to sit on the edge of the small pool inlaid in the floor of the room, waving his feet in the water. Thancred toes off his boots and socks before following suit.

“You could use the break,” he replies, side-eying a fresh, angry red scar roping its way around Ikael’s midsection from his shoulder. “And gods know no one else takes care of you, let alone yourself.”

Ikael makes a cooing noise and smiles at him softly, sipping at his tea. His eyes are twinkling with a warmth Thancred finds he can easily return.

“Valentione’s day is coming up,” Ikael brings up, seemingly out of nowhere.

Thancred mentally checks the date. “It is,” he affirms, shooting Ikael an amused look. “Thinking of asking someone to go out romantically killing monsters and doing other people’s chores with you?”

Ikael laughs. “Not as such,” he says, and takes a small sip of his tea. “I’ve never quite celebrated it, to be honest. I haven’t been in a long enough relationship, although I had a friend back in the tribe… well. We agreed to call it ‘best friends’ day,’ so that is what I have known it as. Thinking back, actually, that friend was always a bit… hm. Over… enthusiastic about it.” He glances down.

Thancred gives an overdramatic gasp, easily piecing _that_ together. “And _I_ am supposed to be the heartbreaker here. I cannot _believe_ you, Ikael.”

“ _Hey_. It’s not my fault! I thought it was normal for best friends to… run off together and maybe…. Ah. He called it ‘friend kissing.’ I did not know… Don’t give me that look. He wasn’t _bad_ -looking. I just wasn’t… interested. Uh. It was when he wanted to do… _more_ that I realized that perhaps I had been… leading him on a bit.”

He winces. Thancred grins. Ikael takes a deep breath, then lets it out in a defeated sigh.

“I felt bad for him and we sort of started… courting? Gods, I don’t know. _Ugh_ , I hate _thinking_ about it—poor Kava.”

The last part is muttered seemingly to himself. Thancred is _delighted_.

“ _Anyways_ ,” Ikael says loudly as Thancred opens his mouth, “’Tis ‘best friends’ day’ now. And unless you harbour some secret desire to lay with me and whisper all your unconfessed love romantically into my ear, we shall celebrate it the normal way.”

“I would make a _sonnet_ ,” Thancred grins, wiggling his toes in the water. “‘ _Oh, sweet love of mine/ With your eyes like resplendent emeralds shine—’”_

Ikael kicks him as best he can through water, and Thancred laughs.

“I am making cupcakes,” Ikael declares. He sounds suddenly thoughtful. “… Yes. And… hm. Chocolate, maybe? No. But strawberry is too strong a taste for the _pink_ icing…”

“I am honoured that you consider me your best friend,” Thancred announces grandly before Ikael can get lost planning out an entire banquet. “I, personally, think that you are terribly uncouth and not a bit dense, so you are number four on the list. You can work your way up.”

“Don’t make me _cry_ ,” Ikael says, rolling his eyes. “I’ll show you ‘uncouth,’” he adds in an undertone, squinting at his mug.

Thancred smiles and leans into him, and Ikael splashes him. What follows is a splash-fight that is terribly childish and silly, and that they will never, ever admit having to _anyone_ if pressed. For the moment, though, they can enjoy themselves.

Love is in the air, after all.

~*~

(BONUS:

)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got "best friends' day" from my friend, who has a boyfriend and still hates valentine's day. hah.


	16. performance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> send me tumblr prompts and i'll.... take them seriously, of COURSE.

“ _Please_ , you cannot die… _now_ ,” Ikael wails, throwing his arms out wildly and smacking Thancred in the face. “Oh _noooo_ , my… _love._ ”

“I can’t die because that’s not in this _scene_ , idiot,” Thancred hisses in an undertone. “You’re an entire act ahead!”

Ikael opens an eye to peer at him. “… _Oh_ ,” he whispers.

In front of the stage, the very pretty, very lovely maidens Thancred has invited to watch their performance giggle louder. Thancred lets his head drop down in defeat. It hits the stage with a soft _thud_.

“Uh,” says Ikael. He starts poking Thancred's chest repeatedly with his forefinger. “ _What, ho_ , Theoniclus! What injury has befallen you? Be it… _fate_ that shall see us part unto the morning?”

He is just saying random shite now. Thancred groans. “Stop… prodding me,” he mutters, batting Ikael’s hand away.

He sees Ikael squint, and just… _knows_ he is trying to remember when “Theoniclus” says that line. The women have clearly started laughing now. Thancred closes his eyes. He will accept his fate.

He hears Ikael stammer, and readies himself… “My _love_!” Ikael cries in a high-pitched voice, apparently deciding that his talent lies in improvisation, “Oh… how I… _love_ thee. You. Ahem.”

“Dear gods,” Thancred mutters. “Please, someone actually kill me.”

“ _Noo_ , my love, do not… _say that_!” Ikael exclaims. Thancred's eyes shoot open as he feels himself being hefted up. Ikael cradles him against his chest, his wig falling onto Thancred's face. Thancred spits out a lock of false hair.

“If… _only_ … true love’s _kiss_ could mend this tale!” Ikael cries in a shrill falsetto, beginning to lean down. Thancred's eyes widen, and he turns his head at the last instant as Ikael smacks wet, painted lips to his cheek.

“Hey, that wasn’t true love’s kiss,” Ikael murmurs, and… wait. Thancred glances back up at him, and… the damned fiend is _smirking_.

“Pucker up, lover boy,” Ikael says, and the laughter gets _louder_ —the bastard is doing this on _purpose_ —

Thancred twists his head away once more, and this time the kiss lands on his chin. Someone in the audience cackles.

“My _love_!” Ikael shrieks, “Why do you… reject me _sooo?_ ”

The most terrible part of this is the fact that his acting isn’t ingenuine. Thancred (unfortunately) remembers the rehearsals.

“Aha,” he says, straining to escape Ikael’s grip—godsdamn, he’s strong—“I… have had an epiphany. I am not interested in women, and I’ve only been using you to get to your brother, but we can still be friends, Henrietta—”

Ikael whips off his wig dramatically, flinging it to the far corner of the stadium, and the audience cheers. “I am no woman!” he declares grandly. Someone throws rose petals. “It is I… _Henry_!”

“Get some, Henry!” someone hoots—is that Lyse?

“Not Henrietta!” Ikael adds unnecessarily. “Henry! Her brother! Whom you are _actually_ in love with!”

Well. It is a better ending than the original, at any rate.

“Oh, _Henry_!” Thancred gasps, clutching at his chest. He might as well give in—he is not winning this. “How long have I marveled at you from afar, ever since that one time I caught you bathing naked in the moonlight—”

“Oh, was that you? I thought that was the milkmaid’s son, but you’re far… hunkier. Yum.”

“—You set my loins afire—”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

“—and I declare myself eternally devoted to worshipping your beauty! Oh, could I but seal this passion with the union of our bodies—”

“Uh, not on stage—”

“—As such, a kiss will have to do. For it was only in the false knowledge that you were your sister that I essayed to delay our bonding.”

Thancred winds his hands around Ikael's neck and begins to pull him down.

“Wait,” says Ikael, eyes widening. “I, uh, don’t actually want to—”

Too late. The audience goes _wild_ , and someone—no, that’s definitely Lyse—wolf-whistles. Ikael lets out a muffled squeak. Thancred moans at him over-dramatically in response.

He breaks the kiss with a lovesick sigh. The sticky taste of lip-paint on his mouth is worth the look on Ikael’s face.

“ _Ew_ ,” Ikael whimpers, wiping desperately at his mouth with his sleeve.

“And they lived happily ever after!” Thancred shouts to the audience, taking Ikael’s hand and giving a bow the best he can while sprawled on the ground. Their response is _deafening._

Eventually, Ikael laughs, and pulls him up to bow properly, which they do with matching grins, again and again and… someone throws a bouquet of roses… again. At one point, Ikael rips open his bodice and throws his fake breasts into the audience, and that is when things begin to get a little… out of control. But it is all in good fun.

_And they lived happily ever after._

_The end._

 

_~*~_

 

 

 


	17. well this is awkward

“Who knew _you’d_ be here?” The words are short, brusque, and malcontent.

Ikael spins around, surprised, and stutters on air when he sees who is addressing him.

“Maurice!” he says. “I, uh… well. Probably everyone, really.” He scratches at his ear. “I kind of… come here often.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he winces. That… really isn’t the most ideal thing to say, considering…

Maurice makes a disgusted noise. “Typical wanton, oversexed _chat_. When I was invited, I was given no indication that this event would be hosting _tramps_.”

Ikael stretches his mouth into a semblance of a smile and laughs a little. Maurice is a handsome elezen man, with high cheekbones, dark eyes, and a very strict demeanor that Ikael had cheerfully ignored when they had first met.

 _You look like you could use a break_ , he had flirted. _Begone, harlot,_ Maurice had replied. Needless to say, it had gone downhill from there.

“I’m, ah, sorry to disappoint,” Ikael says anyways, because he does not wish to be rude. “I’ll probably stay over by the food, so if you want to avoid me—”

“Stuffing yourself?” Maurice sniffs, and Ikael’s tail curls around his leg at his tone. “Careful you do not ruin your figure, _petit chat_ , or you shall find no libidinous friends this evening.”

Ikael does not know what that word means, but he is somewhat offended regardless. “I hardly think _figure_ plays a part in desirability,” he says hotly, crossing his arms and squinting at Maurice. “And if anyone _were_ so picky, they would not be worth my time anyhow.”

He is completely arguing the wrong point, but _still_. It has to be said, right?

Maurice raises an eyebrow. “I _hardly_ think you can afford to be selective,” he intones, giving Ikael a scathing once-over. Ikael is about to reply when he feels—smells, hears, senses—a familiar presence by his side.

“What is it with people insisting you are too ugly to sleep with?” Thancred wonders out loud, sidling up to them. Maurice looks down his nose at him, lip curled. “If you ask me, you are rather attractive. Not as much as myself, of course, but good enough.”

Ikael rolls his eyes playfully, feeling his good mood return with Thancred's appearance. “I am prettier than you,” he says, turning to him with a smile.

“Hm.” Thancred makes as if he is thinking. “… No, you’re not.”

“Oh? And who was it that received a dinner invite to handsome Ser Aymeric’s house? Not the _legendary_ mood-killer of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, that is for sure.”

“‘Mood-killer?’ Your insults are becoming feebler by the day.”

“It ruins the mood if you keep pausing to stare at your own reflection in the nearest shiny surface.”

They are interrupted by Maurice, who emits an irritated huff before stalking off. Ikael watches the stiffness of his back as it gets farther away.

Thancred slaps him lightly on the arm. “Do not look after what you should not have,” he admonishes. “You deserve better than him, anyhow. Relax a little tonight, alright?”

Ikael laughs, eyeing Thancred in amusement. “I was not looking,” he promises. “And are you my keeper now? ‘You deserve better than him, Ikael. Find yourself a man who treats you right, Ikael, or I will go to his house and stab him to death in his sleep.’”

Thancred huffs, crossing his arms. “You cannot blame me for being a little… protective,” he mutters. “You have a tendency to throw yourself at any interaction so long as it is there. I am just making sure,” he lifts his chin, “that it is _positive_ interaction.”

“As long as you keep your spying on my ‘positive interactions’ limited to _public_ places, I am fine with it,” Ikael says cheerfully. In truth, he is… touched, if a bit confused. Thancred can be a _dear_ , although Ikael does not think he is truly _that_ self-destructive. Still, Ikael will bake him sweet tarts later as thanks.

He gives Thancred a little peck on the cheek as insurance anyways, ignoring the bewildered look it gets him. Yes, sweet tarts.

With lemon. He likes those.

~*~


	18. that's nice of you

“So…” Thancred says when Ikael totters over to them with nervous, fidgety hands, “How did everything go?”

Ikael pulls at a loose string on his hand-wrap. His tail is wound tightly around his thigh and his ears are dipped at a self-conscious angle. “…Ah,” he replies, looking at the ground, “I… do not think they liked me.”

Thancred makes a sympathetic noise, and Y'shtola, next to him, frowns. “That is ridiculous,” she asserts, placing her hands on her hips. “Everyone likes you. I do not detect anything unlikeable _about_ you. This is why Free Companies should not be trusted to handle any important decisions.”

Ikael shoots her a tentative grin. “Aheh,” he mumbles. “A-anyways… I, uh, went to make dinner and I… kept going? There’s… enough for a few people, if you two want to eat with me later…”

“Of course,” Thancred agrees readily, because he is _starving_ , and he does not want to cook his own food. “In fact, why wait until later? It is late enough to eat now.”

“I…” Ikael peers down at his boots. “I think I need to… meditate for a bit. You two can start without me—the food is in the kitchen under my nametag.”

And so saying, he walks away to his room, squeezing his own arm in a facsimile of a hug.

Y'shtola sighs softly. “I hope he recovers from whatever setback they have laid on him,” she says. Her ear flicks with a light crease of her brow.

“He will meditate, feel calmer, and get his hugs when he comes back to us,” Thancred declares easily. He knows how this goes. “So… can we go eat?”

Y'shtola scowls at him. “Thancred!”

“I am hungry!”

“We will wait for him,” Y'shtola orders, giving him a look that brokers no room for argument, “And he shall feel better when he finds out that he gets to eat with friends. Honestly, Thancred…”

Thancred holds up his hands. “Of course, of course. I was merely testing the integrity of your good intentions.”

“Hmph.”

Ikael’s face does, in fact, break into a soft, surprised smile when he sees that they have waited for him. It is worth the patient growling of Thancred's stomach.

~*~


	19. reassurance

“I’m _sorry_.”

The words are torn, raw, out of a choked throat, accompanied by a shaky gasp of breath and wet eyes. Ikael wipes his cheek with the back of his hand, gaze heavy and focused on a button on Thancred's shirt.

“I know you are sorry, Ikael,” Thancred says quietly. He feels… stretched. He is caught between self-righteousness—a fading echo of indignance, and an instinct to comfort Ikael that has become almost second nature to him by now. Yet… he cannot. There are some things that should not be solved with easy forgiveness and an embrace.

“It does not…” In a rare moment of hesitance, Thancred searches for the right words. “… resolve the issue,” he decides, because that is light enough, yet serious. “The issue being, of course, that there are times when I cannot… be there for you. Times when I am speaking with someone else, who is also important, and I cannot push them aside for _your_ needs.”

“I-I-I know! I… wasn’t…” Ikael stops, and presses his hand to his eyes, because… yes, he was.

“You need to _ask_ ,” Thancred says gently, because Ikael is still learning, Hydaelyn bless him, and Thancred knows he would try his best with situations like these if he only _knew_ what to do. “Ask ahead of time, and we can figure something out, alright?”

Ikael nods miserably, dropping his hand and looking at Thancred's boots. His shoulders are slumped, his ears folded down, and he looks like he wishes for nothing more than to stop existing. And so Thancred says, in what he hopes is a reassuring tone, “Do not worry; we are still friends, Ikael.”

Ikael's face _crumples_. A sob rises from his chest, and he buries his head in his hands. He starts to back away. Thancred is somewhat alarmed—what had he said?

“Ikael?” he asks, stepping forward and reaching out almost unconsciously. Ikael stumbles away, backing into the door and grasping blindly for the handle. Thancred moves to him quickly, before he can run.

“Hey, hey!” he says. “Where are you going?”

Ikael looks at him with wretched eyes. “Back,” he croaks around a sob. “B-b-back to…” another sob, “my room. I-I’ll… leave you.”

“Hey, wait—” Thancred starts, but Ikael shakes his head vigorously, cuts him off with, “No! No, leave me al—I don’t—can’t—’m _sorry_ —” He finds the door handle and _pulls_ , and then he is scrambling out of the room, leaving Thancred bewilderedly annoyed and not a bit lost.

Ikael is fast, but so is Thancred, and _he_ is not blubbering his way through the halls. Thancred runs after Ikael, catches up to him and spins him around by his shoulders, and Ikael is _crying_ , harder than he has in _months_ —to Thancred's knowledge.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ ,” Ikael wails brokenly, pawing at him. “L-leave me… ’m _sorry_ , leave m-me _alone_ …”

“Alright, come back—come back; here—” Thancred tries to pull him back to his quarters, but Ikael tugs away from him, shaking his head incessantly. “Ikael, we can—talk about this,” Thancred grits out, frustrated. “There is no need for—”

Ikael looks at him, meets his gaze this time, and Thancred stops. Ikael’s eyes are wild, and desperate, and _heartbroken_ , and Thancred… stops. Stops pulling, stops talking. He takes a moment to just… think. Back on tonight. Back on what he had said before Ikael had started reacting so… violently.

He tries to calm down. He stops. He thinks.

Ikael has wrenched himself away now, but is hovering a few fulms to the side, eyeing Thancred hesitantly now that he has stopped trying to detain him. He looks so… fragile, ready to flit away at a moment’s notice, but it is almost as if whatever… whatever trust there is between them is urging him to linger just a little bit longer. It is a sacred hesitance.

Thancred knows his next words are so important, so trivial, so _critical_. He says, “Your worth has not… lessened in my eyes, Ikael.”

It is almost the wrong thing to say. Ikael looks ready to bolt, but Thancred presses on, growing confident, “It is out of respect for others that I ask you to pay heed to them. Does that not make sense? It is not out of disrespect for _you_.”

Ikael’s face becomes a grimace, and Thancred waits for it to turn into words. It does, and Ikael says, voice trembling but discernable, “I-I…”

He breathes, tries again, and this time the words come spilling out.

“I am so _sorry_ ,” he whimpers. “I… I’m _horrible_ , and selfish, and you _h-hate_ me, and you—”

“No,” Thancred corrects gently, “I do not hate you. Let us try rephrasing that, alright?”

Ikael stares at him, and the only audible sound is his breathing for a long, long moment.

Then, quietly:

“I… _think_ that you hate me,” Ikael mumbles, “And I… _think_ that…. I am worth nothing to you, because I always presume that… I _think_ I always presume that I-I am the only one with problems, and that’s terrible and selfish I _know_ , and I shouldn’t _do_ it, and you’ve f-finally realized that I’m a horrible person and you want n-nothing to do with me, and in fact y-you never even liked me at all, you were just being nice, and nobody _cares_ about me because there’s nothing _good_ about me, and I’m just _useless_ for anything other than kill—”

“Okay, woah, slow down,” Thancred says, holding out his hands in an attempt at pacification. Ikael is obviously far more riled up than he had thought—it isn’t like him to be this emotional without a strong reason. “And what am I doing now, eh? If I do not care about you?”

Saying the words and looking at Ikael’s expression _hurts_ , but Thancred waits, and Ikael eventually mumbles, “I… don’t know. You’re…”

“What would you do?” Thancred suggests, “If our positions were reversed?”

Ikael… looks like he is thinking, which is—good. He says, “I would… I wouldn’t be mad at you. When people are upset they… they forget things. You would have forgotten, then, to ask, and yes, okay, it was a mistake, but people make those, and it was not… it was not intentional…”

He looks down. He seems as if he is trying, desperately, to cling to the hypothetical.

“I would not hold it against you; of course not,” Ikael says softly. “You… you are _you_ , to me. An honest mistake would not change that.”

He closes his eyes, breathes—still shakily, but with a visible effort to be calmer—and opens them.

“I know,” he says in a low voice. “I... I _know_. But… it is s-so hard, so hard to t-try to replace you with me. I-I’m not… I-I don’t…”

“You know, do you not?” Thancred responds. “And I would consider that major progress, Ikael. So tell me: Do I hate you?”

Ikael looks—stricken, confused, pained. “I-I-I,” he stammers, “I don’t…” A shaky breath. “Know? No? I-I do not…”

“Know,” Thancred finishes with a gentle smile. “And, no.” Ikael looks like he could use… “How about a hug, hm?”

Ikael sobs, dryly—and… hesitates. Thancred waits patiently, watches the array of emotions move across Ikael’s face before he finally steps forward and—Thancred meets him halfway. Ikael has made enough big steps, tonight.

“Th-thank you,” Ikael breathes, holding him oh-so-tightly, as if he is still afraid Thancred will get fed up and leave. _Never_ , Thancred thinks at him fondly, squeezing him back.

“You are doing so well,” Thancred murmurs, and Ikael sniffs.

A long minute passes in comforting silence, and their hearts beat next to each other—solid, alive. Life is fleeting and so are they, but they can _live_ for moments like these.

“We all love you very dearly, Ikael,” Thancred says, because he wants to, and Ikael makes a vulnerable sound.

“I know you only like those words when you are drunk,” Thancred continues good-naturedly, “But it is true. As much as _this_ —between us—is not one-sided, _you_ are not either. You give us love, and devotion, and compassion, and we would give it back tenfold. Do me a favour and try to remember that, alright?”

He smiles, and feels Ikael nod—with another sniffle. Thancred chuckles. “I should get paid for this,” he muses. “Hm… yes. Tataru would love the revenue.”

“I love you too,” Ikael pushes out in a hiccup, then _shakes_ , trembles non-stop, and Thancred holds him steadily, humming at him.

“I’ve got you,” he reassures softly. “I’ve got you, alright?”

“I _know_ ,” Ikael mumbles, and Thancred can hear his smile, because yes, Thancred realizes, he _does_.

~*~


	20. unsure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> takes place the night after the last derrble

Ikael is feeling… unsure.

Not insecure. He is past that, at least for the moment. But he is thinking, as objectively as he can manage (not very, right now, but at least it is an effort), and he…does not know whether he is allowed to do what he wishes to do.

But he… he cannot sleep. He is lying in his bed, knees drawn up, head pressed to them, staring out his window, and he can see stars twinkling at him and he can see the world asleep around him but he cannot manage to relax. He needs a presence; he needs _warmth_ , comfort, trust, because he still feels a bit hollow from the day before even if he is better now.

He sits like this for what seems like bells, but it cannot be so, because the moon has barely moved when he finally decides to get up.

He pads over to Thancred's room, softly, leeching comfort from the texture of the wall against the pads of his fingers as he drags them across. He stops outside, breathes, waits, wonders if he is overstepping any boundaries.

Thancred had said… to ask. _You need to ask_. _Ahead of time_. But Ikael has not asked, and he does not want to wake Thancred with a linkpearl call so he can be pestered to deal with _Ikael_ ’s problems.

Ikael frets, shifts his weight, gets increasingly _nervous_ —he… should not be here…

The door opens, quickly and unexpectedly, and Ikael is left staring nonplussed at Thancred's frown.

“Who are you and why—” Thancred stops mid-sentence, blinks once at Ikael. His frown slowly fades.

“Oh—Ikael,” he says, and he does not sound irritated, but the rush of guilt washes over Ikael nevertheless.

Thancred yawns a little—it is endearing, and Ikael feels a pulse of affection warm his heart—and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before looking at Ikael anew. He asks, “What is it?”

Ikael cannot tell him, can he? He is still staring, nonverbal. He watches as Thancred waits patiently, feels increasingly guilty for every second in which he cannot—will not?—speak. He hopes— _hopes_ that Thancred will not get angry, but it is inevitable, really.

Thancred says, “Well, all right then. Come in.”

He leaves the doorframe and goes back inside. Ikael balks a little.

He hesitantly steps in, and closes the door behind him. He manages to say, because Thancred had said to _ask_ , “Are you sleeping?”

He cringes. The words are not good enough. Yet he does not know which other ones to choose—

And Thancred replies, in a strangely easy tone, “No.”

… That is it?

Ikael is frozen there, knowing that he cannot say anything without crossing any stated boundaries, but…

Thancred yawns again, smaller this time, and then sits down on his bed and pats the space next to him.

Ikael doesn’t move.

“Come sit,” Thancred says, kicking his ankles a little.

Ikael… goes over. He pauses before sitting down, slowly.

Thancred smiles at him. “You alright?” he asks.

Ikael stares.

Thancred shuffles closer until Ikael can feel his warmth at his side. He yawns again—gods, has Ikael woken him?—and rests his head on Ikael’s shoulder. Then he reaches back, grabs a fistful of his blanket, and… gives it to Ikael?

“It is soft,” Thancred says, as if he expects that to help. He sighs a little, gently. Ikael can feel the exhale on the skin of his collarbone.

Ikael glances down, feels the fabric. It… _is_ soft—yes, that is… nice. And the design is different—has Thancred changed his sheets?

Ikael looks at Thancred in consideration. His hair is hiding his face, but he seems relaxed, at ease leaning against Ikael like this. Perhaps he had needed softer blankets—Ikael can understand that.

Silence stretches out peacefully. Ikael… needs to… ask, right?

… What does he need to ask, again?

Thancred stifles yet _another_ yawn—oh no—and tugs Ikael up the bed to the pillows.

“Sleep?” he mumbles, shimmying underneath the—nice, soft—blanket. Ikael follows suit automatically.

Ikael opens his mouth to reply—then he remembers, with the words—it slams into him like a sledgehammer—he says—

(Thancred has been sidling closer to Ikael, and has managed to get an arm around him by the time he speaks—)

“I—I didn’t _ask_ ; I’m so sorry, Thancred—I… I wanted to but then I forgot—I’m _sorry_ —”

“ _Oh_ ,” Thancred interrupts, surprised realization flashing across his eyes. “Is that why you… Hm. I did say that, didn’t I?”

He seems to be talking somewhat to himself, but Ikael nods emphatically nevertheless. Oh _no_ ; he should _leave_ —

“Hey, where are you going?” Thancred frowns at him, pulling at his arm. “Come—Come. You’re warm.”

Ikael is… warm, apparently. All… right.

He is tugged back into the bed, and Thancred immediately sprawls half across him, shifting around to get comfortable. When Ikael looks at him, his eyes are closing.

“Can’t do this with anyone else,” Thancred mutters quietly, finally settling his head next to Ikael’s shoulder. “And you’re so… fluffy.”

Fluffy? What—no matter. Thancred should not feel obligated to do this, regardless of how “fluffy” Ikael is.

“I didn’t _ask_ , Thancred,” Ikael echoes his words from earlier in an urgent whisper. “I shouldn’t be here taking advantage of you like this.”

“Move your head a little. No, that way,” Thancred instructs, and Ikael obeys. “You think _you_ are taking advantage of… ah. Ahem. You are being silly, Ikael,” he admonishes, eyes flitting open. “How about next time, you simply… knock, or something, and if you have done something truly egregious, I shall hold the right to refuse you. But,” another yawn, “I am the one who asked you to come inside, am I not?”

Thancred… is right, actually. Ikael blinks.

Thancred smiles at him gently. “You _are_ being silly,” he repeats. “Truth be told, Ikael… providing you comfort is an act that is, in and of itself, rather therapeutic. I would be lying if I said I… have not gained some confidence in myself because of you. So stop worrying and go to sleep, alright? Silly.”

He pokes Ikael. Teasingly.

“I _am_ being silly,” Ikael says out loud, to see if the words will stick. He waits, and… they… do.

Thancred sighs. “I just said that, did I not? Now shut up; I’m tired.”

He closes his eyes once more, and his fingers twitch on Ikael’s chest before relaxing. Ikael reaches up to take his hand, to feel the soft texture of his fingerprints, and he… calms, fully. It is not a little wondrous.

He turns his head to lay a gentle goodnight kiss on Thancred’s forehead (to which he gets a small murmur). Perhaps… perhaps things are a little different than he sees them sometimes, then. Perhaps it is like that for Thancred as well. Either way, Ikael is glad they can both be there for each other when these types of situations arise. It is worth… diamonds, to him. And he hopes Thancred feels the same way.

True friendship is a precious thing.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you're somehow not here from [ "ikael"](http://archiveofourown.org/series/909954) the series, i do have a [ tumblr ](http://draw-you-coward.tumblr.com/) on which i talk a lot about ikael, draw sometimes, and post updates!


	21. a little sad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set after "Best Friends Day"

Ikael is not… feeling his best right now.

It would be… almost a silly thing, really. He is fine, his temporary adventuring party is fine, everything is fine… and a set of Ikael’s old pugilist hora that he keeps as fond keepsakes have melted in a small pool of lava somewhere in Dravania.

Ikael picks at the calluses on his hands. It is… alright. He had carved a few crude drawings into them once, when he had gotten bored. They had been hideous and inaccurate, but solely for himself, and had made him smile whenever he had looked back at them.

It… is alright.

“You seem to be missing that boundless well of energy you usually possess,” someone comments, and Ikael glances up to see Alisaie, hands splayed on her hips, eyeing him with a ghost of a smile. He quirks his mouth up in a quick imitation of one as well.

“Bit sore from this morning, that is all,” he says in a low tone. “Helped a few friendly strangers out with some unfriendly Dravanians.”

“Oh, I see,” Alisaie says. “Well, I came to tell you that Alphinaud ate all of the cookies already. I know you don’t make more than one batch per week, but perhaps… consider it, maybe, for next time? Ugh; I do not know. My brother apparently _insists_ on ruining everyone else’s most minor happiness.”

She is frowning by the time she finishes her statement. Ikael fakes a chuckle and says, “No more this week. You know my rules. But I will make sure to put it… higher, for next week. Bring a step stool.”

Alisaie spreads her hands. “’Tis the best I can get, I suppose. And more than I’d hoped." She gives Ikael one last parting smile before wandering off.

He stays like he is for as many minutes as he can count, perhaps, before Thancred comes up to him.

“There you are,” says Thancred, perching on a box next to Ikael. “You did not make lunch today! I had to buy my own—it was _horrible_. Do you know that the vendors here do not even bother to write my name with a little heart on a card when they give me my meal? Terrible service. I feel un-smothered.”

“Now that is an exaggeration,” Ikael offers quietly. He has no energy for banter today, and Thancred will leave him be once he realizes he is being boring. “I don’t think I’ve ever done that.”

Thancred does not reply immediately, but Ikael does not think too much of it, instead glancing out the window. It is an average enough day—a little sun, a little mysterious purple mist. It is nice enough outside, he knows.

“Too tired to make lunch?” Thancred asks, and when Ikael looks back at him he is sporting a small smile.

“Ah—a bit.” Ikael folds his fingers together, because he knows from experience that his hands will bleed if he picks at them too much. “Sorry about that; I’ll make a big meal tomorrow.”

“No, ‘tis fine,” Thancred says. He shifts over on his box so he is closer to Ikael.

“You seem a bit down,” he offers.

“O-oh. I… I’m okay, really; just tired. I don’t mean to bring down the mood.”

“You are not,” Thancred says, and cups Ikael’s shoulder with his hand. “What’s wrong?”

Ikael feels his ears droop even lower. “Nothing’s wrong, Thancred. Really, I’m okay. I am sorry if I am worrying you.”

“Nothing’s wrong?” Thancred echoes. He is closer now, and he drapes an arm across Ikael’s shoulders. “Are you sure?”

Ikael glances up at him, and—oh. He looks back down at his feet.

“It is silly,” he mutters, hunching down further.

Thancred makes a gentle noise, and starts brushing his thumb against Ikael’s skin in a soothing, repeated motion. “Even if it is,” he says, “Is it upsetting you enough that you want a hug?”

 _Oh_. Now that he has suggested it, Ikael feels the need for comfort turn from a small yearning to a yawning ache. He looks Thancred in the eye and nods, miserably.

Thancred envelops him, and Ikael closes his eyes, relaxing into the sensation and curling his tail around them. He is—so grateful.

“Thank you,” he mumbles into Thancred's neck, and he gets a hush and what feels like a small peck on his head in reply. He melts.

“Come,” says Thancred as he draws back, still keeping no more than a fulm away. “Let us go do something fun. Perhaps bake you a pie, hm? Or kill some bandits, or something? Which is it you do in your free time, again?”

Ikael lets out a very, very small laugh. “Both,” he mumbles, and Thancred grins brightly.

“Both, then!” he says. “Come on. And I shall even let you hold my hand if you promise to bake another batch of cookies for the week—it seems Alphinaud ate them all. Greedy little bugger.”

Ikael laughs a little more at this, and does not hold Thancred's hand—he is not too fond of the feel of the act, nor is he a child—but maybe clings on to his arm, a little. Thancred does not seem to mind.

And for once, Ikael does not think of providing recompense for his kindness.

~*~


	22. tolerance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written and set directly after 4.1. Contains very vague allusions to an opinion, but no people are mentioned by name.

It is nighttime, and Thancred is going for somewhat of an idle walk, still keeping close enough to civilization should anything arise that he need be summoned for. A break, they had been told, for the Scions. Well—perhaps not for Ikael, he knows—but Thancred, at least, can afford to go for a breath of fresh air.

He notices Ikael more by presence rather than sound. The air is calm and peaceful, the ground still holding the scent of rain; it is a nice night. Thancred feels an indignantly volatile force of energy stalk towards him despite it all, and greets his friend with a wave.

Ikael’s shoulders are hunched, his posture still tense from recent events. His ears are flattened back at an annoyed angle and his tail is twitching in agitation. Either no one had noticed, or no one had paid much heed to him, because the frustration in his gaze looks long-standing.

“Thancred,” he grits out, and Thancred almost spreads his arms out in a welcoming gesture before thinking better of it. He waits for Ikael to approach further.

“Care to go for a walk with me?” he offers, even if he knows Ikael will not accept. Thancred reckons he would much rather take his frustration out on a training dummy.

Ikael sighs; a curt, rushed exhale. “Are you feeling tired?” he asks.

Thancred knows what is coming next. He shakes his head, quickly doing inventory of his knives.

“Spar with me,” Ikael says. It is not framed like a request, but it is one nevertheless. Thancred knows that if he refuses, Ikael will nod, take it in stride, and perhaps scream into his pillow before he sleeps tonight.

“There is a flat hilltop some ways that way,” Thancred suggests, and Ikael visibly relaxes by a fraction, gratefulness taking over his expression. It seeps into his shoulders, and they do not loosen, exactly, but some of the tension changes from stress to anticipation.

Ikael closes his eyes briefly. “Thank you,” he breathes, and Thancred offers him a pat on the shoulder.

They reach the area Thancred had spotted earlier, and Ikael barely waits for Thancred's signal before charging him with a clenched jaw. Thancred meets his fists with the hilts of his blades, and they begin.

Ikael’s movements are focused and serious, as they ever are, but there is something different in the way he fights—there is an emotion there that is usually detached, strategically separated from the battlefield. And when he starts leaving himself purposefully open, when he takes but a moment too long to block a strike, Thancred decides to stop.

He has to pull the sharpest of his blades up against Ikael’s throat in order to do this, because gods know the man is perseverant—he would keep doggedly fighting even on his deathbed, if he were able. Even so, it is only when Thancred winces at a bead of blood oozing down the length of his blade does Ikael give in and acknowledge their sparring session to be over.

Thancred makes his way to a boulder jutting out nearby, and climbs atop it, attempting to even out his breathing. Even with Ikael holding back in the strange way he was, fighting is always a tiring activity.

“Come,” Thancred says, turning and beckoning to Ikael. “Sit with me and watch the stars, and mayhaps tell me why you nearly let me cut you in half a dozen times just now.”

Ikael huffs out an amused breath at this, and goes over. He hops up the boulder with lazy ease, and Thancred squints at him. Ikael is closer to Lyse’s age than his, but still… such stamina is almost annoying. He should be _tired_.

Ikael looks at Thancred, and seems to read something in his expression, because he scoots closer and leans against him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Thancred drops his head onto Ikael’s own shoulder in return, grateful for the familiarity of the contact. He feels as if he is on uneven ground like this, and the touch… helps.

“To tell you the truth,” Ikael says, and his voice is not exactly soft, but it is honest, at least, “It was because I knew you’d notice.”

Thancred suppresses the urge to immediately utter a retort, and takes some time to dwell on this revelation. After a minute, he says, “Are we that bad?”

Ikael lifts his head to look at him.

“Oh, Thancred,” he says, and _now_ his face is softening into a fond smile, “ _You_ are not. You are amazing, and I am very glad I have you. But… otherwise…”

He sighs, and stares off into the distance. Thancred brings a hand up to hesitantly pet his hair—truth be told, he does not know whether the motion is more for Ikael or himself.

“I am… getting tired,” Ikael says at last, quiet and worn. “Of not getting spiteful. It is easy, usually, and a few months ago I would have thought naught of it. But… _gods_. I am not one to beg for sympathy, Thancred, but it feels… cheap, when someone else is being…” He looks down at his hand, clenches and unclenches his fingers.

“When someone else is being pathetic,” he bites out, “and for some reason everyone is flocking to them. I do not deny them that, but… it is a farce. To _me_ , at least. Warrior of Light I may be, but I would not presume to be _friend_ to someone unless they acknowledge that that is… disrespectful. It _feels_ disrespectful. Not… just to me, but…”

He stops.

“No,” he says. “To me.”

He looks at Thancred, full in the eye. “I do not wish to sound selfish,” he says, “But I feel as if I deserve at least an acknowledgement—of what I have been through. What I have…. _That_ I have suffered.”

Thancred expression is heavy with sympathy, he is sure. He reaches out, lightly strokes Ikael’s arm.

Ikael’s face creases. “I… _have_ suffered,” he says, oh-so-quietly. “And you have, too. And _so_ many have. And I…”

He closes his eyes, bows his head.

“I would trade a million effervescent praises,” he says in a low voice, “A thousand belated apologies… for someone to ask if I was _okay_.”

His voice cracks on the last word, and Thancred feels something in his heart clench as he wordlessly pulls Ikael close. It is a short night and they will be expected in the morning, probably, but Eorzea can wait a moment for them to catch their breaths.

“I will always be there for you,” Ikael promises into Thancred's sternum after minutes have passed. “Always, okay? You… keep me _sane_. And I hope that,” he breathes, “I can do the same for you. I hope that I can be as important to you as you are to me.”

Thancred shuts his eyes. “You are, Ikael,” he says determinedly. “You _do_ affect people as more than just perhaps incorrect idealist motivation. You are more a person than a fighter, I promise.”

Ikael’s breathing stutters, because Thancred has hit the nail on the head, of course. He squeezes Thancred, _tightly_.

Thancred does not mind. If Ikael needs someone to be his number one _Ikael_ fan rather than number one _Warrior of Light_ fan, he will gladly play the role.

With Ikael here, like this, strong and fierce and loyal, it is not hard.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gosh 4.1 made me salty lol. and i'm... not as nice as ikael.  
> (poor woL needs a Break)


	23. there once were two fools in ul'dah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> who... ugh i'm terrible at rhyming

Ul’dah was a hot country. This was a known and acknowledged fact. Yet Thancred was feeling… well. Itchy, a bit uncomfortable, and a not a little sniffly besides.

Perhaps it had been the exposure to the strange aether patterns he had been sent to investigate, or perhaps it had been the weather, or perhaps even some newfound allergies. Nevertheless, Thancred knew he needed bed rest—at the very least, to avoid Ikael’s needling when he returned home.

And, well, _Ikael_ was a nice thought right around now, while Thancred started trudging over to the Quicksand (he might get a reprimand from Momodi, but he’d also get an inn room). Ikael had been hopping around in what looked like furs as of late, and Thancred had seen him at one point with a small cartload of glamour prisms and even _more_ furs. There was… some humour in that, probably… Thancred giggled a little. Ikael… furry… furs…

(Was it considered uncivilized to wear them, to miqo’te? Oh no—was it possible to _skin_ a miqo’te? The thought was barbaric; Thancred could never imagine doing such a—)

He stopped. Squinted.

He had reached the Quicksand. That in and of itself wasn’t much of a revelation; no, Thancred was peering at an odd and familiar-looking furry shape curled on the ground outside of the front steps. He poked it with his foot.

The shape grunted, and opened its eyes to peep at him. Then it uncurled into an Ikael.

“Thancred! Hey,” Ikael mumbled, cheerily enough.

Thancred stared at him. “What are you doing?” he asked.

 “Sleeping,” Ikael replied, which was… fair.

Thancred frowned. This was too confusing, somehow. He was going to get a headache.

“But you’re not… inside?” Perhaps this _did_ make sense. Ikael was an odd sort of fellow—mayhaps he liked sleeping outside for… whatever reason.

“I have a hundred and fourteen gil,” Ikael said.

“ _What!?”_ said Thancred.

“I have—” Ikael began to repeat himself.

“What the—what did you _spend_ it on?” Thancred demanded, arching his hands on his hips.

“Pants.”

Thancred closed his eyes. He didn’t open them for a minute after that, because it felt nice and was a little bit of a relief, maybe.

He had to when he felt Ikael drape himself across his torso and slump down with a sigh. Thancred scowled, stumbling back a step, and barely managed to catch their combined weight.

“’m sick,” Ikael mumbled as explanation into his neck.

Thancred groaned. “Great. I am too.”

“I know,” Ikael said. “I can tell. You look… smell, feel… sicky. Eheheh.”

“That’s not a word,” Thancred muttered. “Idiot.”

Ikael whined, wrapping his arms around him, and Thancred pushed at him with an annoyed noise.

“You’re too hot!” he said. “Gods. Ugh. No clinging until we get inside.”

Ikael settled for winding himself around Thancred's arm. “I’ll pay you back, Thancred,” he mumbled into his shoulder as Thancred dragged them up the stairs. “I’ll pay you with… money. Love. Food.”

“You only have one of those three things at your disposal right now,” Thancred said, pushing at the entrance doors perhaps a bit harder than he was used to, “And while I appreciate it, it can aid neither of us of with our illnesses. I have funds enough to get us _food_ , at least, as well as sanctuary in the form of a room and perhaps a few extra pillows.”

“You talk,” Ikael moaned, “… _so_ much. Shut up. Ugh—everyone’s so _loud_ in here.”

It _was_ loud—either more so than usual, or the regular amount and it just happened to grate at them more. Either way, the tavern was full of energy and adventurers, most talking or making deals, a couple apparently having a bard-off in the corner—interesting—and a few doing… other strange things. Thancred shook his head. The Quicksand could be an odd place at times.

“This pillar. Hug this pillar,” Thancred instructed Ikael, who obeyed dutifully. Once Thancred was sure Ikael was anchored enough to not be lost by the time he came back, he moved to secure them a room; preferably one away from the noise.

Momodi, as expected, scolded him for his somewhat sorry state—and scolded him more firmly when she caught sight of Ikael dozing off against his pillar—but waived the fee for the room when Thancred turned to Otopa to inquire.

“’Tis free for Ikael,” she said, “And therefore for you as well. So is the food I will send up, Thancred—and I will have naught of your insistence. You require rest and recuperation, and that is final. Now take the poor dear upstairs before either of you pass out.”

Thancred did, pulling Ikael away from his new, inanimate friend whilst idly humming the ends of a song he recognized from the nearby bardic competition.

The room had a double bed, which was nice, because Ikael tended to switch between shrinking himself into a ball and making like an octopus when he slept. Thancred nudged him towards the bed, trusting him to mostly take care of himself, and set about unlacing his boots.

“How much was the… money?” Ikael asked. There was a thumping noise.

“Free,” Thancred said promptly, before remembering that he wasn’t supposed to tell Ikael that for whatever reason. He shrugged—he was sure it didn’t matter.

“Oh _no!_ ” Ikael cried in dismay. Oh. That was why. “I’ll have to… bake her… cook… _cake_! Meat pies… Momodi loves meat pies…”

“Shuddup,” Thancred grumbled, plopping down next to Ikael and pushing his shoes out of the way. “Hey… hey. Is it true you once fondled a helpless old man and stole all of his clothing?”

Ikael made a confused noise at his face, and that is when their food arrived. Ikael stumbled up and attempted to dump a meagre amount of gil on their server—No!—Thancred swiped at him to make him stop, Ikael yelped and perhaps tripped a little… it was all rather fuzzy, but five minutes later they were sitting (more or less) at the desk and happily chomping away.

“It’s: ‘ _There once was a maiden fair_ ,’ not ‘ _a maid with hair_ ,’” Thancred was telling Ikael. He slurped at his soup.

“‘There once was a maiden fair… that for some reason lost all her hair,’” Ikael started.

Thancred snorted in amusement, catching on with glee. “‘She bought herself tonic, which… was rather ironic…’” Not his most prolific work, but the best he could manage at the moment.

“Uh… ‘Because she was allergic to the care!’” Ikael finished, and then started giggling.

Ikael was a _terrible_ poet. Thancred giggled along with him. This went on for… some time.

“Eat your soup,” Ikael scolded him with a smile after their fit had subsided. Thancred flicked his spoon at him.

They were in bed but a bell and a half later, because they were both feeling rather tired and weary. Ikael curled up, as was his wont, Thancred squirmed into place next to him, and then they were falling asleep, warm and comfortable and quite fuzzy-headed.

They would wake up to feel like the depths of the seventh hell itself, but that was a problem for the next morning.

~*~


	24. allergies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (very brief nausea mention, implied vomiting)

Ikael collapses on his bed, clutching at his abdomen. He manages to kick his boots off, and curls up tightly, rocking back and forth. He had barely been able to draw on sufficient aether to make the rather taxing trip from Kugane to the Rising Stones—and, oh—he definitely hadn’t paid the teleportation fee when he had arrived. He feels bad—absently, in some pain-laced corner of his mind—but he can go back later.

It is still mostly dark here, the sun barely brushing the sky with hues of orange and pink, but Ikael is in no mind to appreciate it. Ugh… _shrimp_. Why hadn’t he asked if there had been shrimp in the food?

He makes an ugly little grunting noise when his lack of movement for but a second causes the ache to intensify. He tucks his head into his knees and starts rocking again.

Hopefully it will pass soon.

~*~

It does not pass soon.

Ikael doesn’t know how long he has been lying in bed, mewling and bleating pathetically into his pillows, but he does not want to get up to check. Perhaps… days. Yes; probably days.

He thinks someone knocks on his door at some point, but he is half asleep, and cannot be sure. He naps, then hobbles up to pee, then hobbles back and lies there feeling sorry for himself. His stomach is aching, his throat is dry, his eyes are itchy and sore from lack of proper sleep, and he maybe wants a little bit to die in a hole and pop back up only when he is absolutely _needed_ to fight a primal.

It is when he is going through a spell of timing short, open-mouthed breaths to soothe his stomach that he hears what is _definitely_ a knock. He wants to tell the person at his door to come in, have some tea, perhaps, but at the same time he does not wish to disturb his strange, perfect breathing pattern. He settles for rocking a bit from side to side to acknowledge them. Hopefully they will be able to tell.

“Ikael?” someone calls, and oh—that is Thancred's voice! How… lovely of him to visit. Ikael keens a little, a continuous noise.

“Can I come in?” Thancred asks, and Ikael keens somewhat louder, at a speaking volume. He stops when he feels another, slightly more nausea-inducing, pang in his stomach.

The door handle turns—he can hear it, even if the only thing he can see is his own hair and his blanket—and then there is the unmistakable sound and smell of someone entering the room.

“Ah—are you still… sleeping? Ikael?” Thancred's voice drops tentatively quiet.

Ikael is not sleeping. He rocks a little harder.

“’Tis past lunchtime, my friend!” Thancred says, voice getting closer. “I had thought to look for you when I didn’t see you all morning—a few people claimed to have spotted you come in earlier. Ah… including a rather displeased aetheryte fee keeper. I thought you had slept in, but…. I say, are you quite alright?”

Ikael can only let out a small whimper, turning his face further into the bed. He tightens his arms around his knees.

“Ikael?” Thancred sounds rather alarmed. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Ikael does not respond—he wants to, but he does not think speaking is a good idea right now.

He feels a hand settle on his back, drift over to his shoulder and stroke downwards in a soothing motion. “Did something happen? Oh—you’re not crying. By the Twelve… are you in pain? Is that it?”

Ikael manages a nod, whining louder. He wants it to _stop_.

“Are you hurt? Are you bleeding?” Thancred's tone turns curt and business-like. “Do you need a healer?”

Ikael shakes his head, increasing his rocking speed with the motion. He thinks it helps, a little.

“Hurts,” he whimpers into his arm.

“ _Oh_. Alright, I—” Thancred's weight settles on the bed. His voice goes oh-so-soft. “Can you tell me where? Which part hurts?”

“Make it stop,” Ikael murmurs, feeble.

Thancred curses quietly. When he speaks, he sounds pained. “I… I want to, I promise, Ikael. But you need to tell me what hurts, alright? What is it exactly?”

Ikael groans as another ache pulses through him, and Thancred's fingers dig into his back for a second before deliberately relaxing. Ikael manages to cobble together a few strands of energy, because he does not wish to be a bad sport, and mumbles, “Cramps.”

Thancred does not say anything at first. After a second, he ventures, “Uh… o-okay. I am… unfamiliar with… that, but I can try to… ah…” He trails off awkwardly.

What? Oh—not _those_ kind of cramps, idiot. “ _Stomach,”_ Ikael grits out.

“Oh.” Thancred sounds relieved. “Did you eat something off, then? This is… an extreme reaction, and you are not one to—”

Ikael makes a pained sound, and Thancred stops.

“I… am going to get a chirurgeon,” he says tightly. “You just hang in there, alright? I promise I will return as swiftly as I am able.”

He rises, then leans down to squeeze Ikael’s shoulder. He says into his ear, “Do not worry, sweetling; I will make haste. It will be as if I never left.”

All at once the contact is broken, Thancred's fingertips brushing against Ikael’s hair and leaving, and Ikael draws his form up tighter as he feels his presence drift further and further away.

~*~

Ikael is buckling over a bin he has dragged out when Thancred returns. He is with—a _stranger_ —Ikael whines, wiping crudely at his mouth and shuffling back. He does not wish to—be seen like this. He presses a hand into the flesh of his now-empty stomach, not liking how weak his body feels.

Thancred's eyes flit to the bin before he steps forward, supporting Ikael without being asked to. He is so kind, and Ikael trusts him so…. He blinks up at him.

“He shall help you get better, Ikael,” Thancred says in a low voice. “I am sorry I could not find anyone you know, but I did not wish to leave you overlong. I will be right here by your side, okay? Right here.”

Ikael does not pause to consider—he nods, trusting Thancred—and clutches at him while the chirurgeon looks him over.

“His body is rejecting something it came into contact with. …Consumed, by the looks of it. Do you know what caused this, Ikael?”

The chirurgeon is referring to him by his name. Ikael does not like how invasive that feels. “Shrimp,” he mumbles into Thancred, to get the stranger to leave.

“… Shrimp?” Thancred echoes after a beat. “Pardon?”

The chirurgeon, however, seems to understand. “Allergies?” he asks, and Ikael nods.

“Ah. There is little I can do to combat your body’s natural reaction, unfortunately. However, I can attempt to ease some of the pain, if you think it will help.”

“Please,” Thancred answers before Ikael can say anything. “It is quite severe—I have never seen him get like this.”

Thancred is… _worried_ , Ikael realizes. Bless him, although Ikael has been in worse pain than this. To be fair, at least, most of those situations are on the battlefield, when he is not with the Scions.

There is a draw of aether, a noise—and Ikael feels the aching pulses be leeched away from his body like poison from a wound. He sighs in relief as the pain dulls to a low throbbing—before slumping weakly against Thancred. He feels frail and unsteady, as if whatever little strength he has left to stand upon is leaving him.

Thancred holds him easily, grip strong and secure. He thanks the chirurgeon—Ikael has not even learned his name—and dismisses him. The man leaves with a bow that Ikael barely catches, and then Thancred is gently leading Ikael to his sink.

“Rinse your mouth out,” he says, stroking Ikael’s back reassuringly. “Easy does it. Here; now that I know where you keep your damned glasses—”

Ikael accepts the cup, clutches at it and feels its smooth surface, and does as Thancred tells him. Thancred makes kind noises at him, and Ikael is being walked back to his bed now, laid gently down and tucked in. Thancred must have… straightened out his bedsheets, at some point—how kind…

“… Love you,” Ikael murmurs shakily, and Thancred's face goes lax.

“Get some sleep for me, alright?” he asks, leaning down to kiss Ikael on the forehead. Ikael’s eyes flutter close. He _is_ tired… “I shall clean up—do not worry. Oh, and next time you decide to consume a food you are nearly deathly allergic to, pray seek help _immediately_. Honestly, Ikael, it is a miracle you manage to take care of yourself…”

Ikael is not listening to whatever it is Thancred is saying, but his voice is soft and soothing, and his fingertips are brushing Ikael’s temple and cheek… it is so _comforting_ …

He is warm and tender and loved. He sleeps.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yep, this can happen. and yep, it sucks. heh.


	25. the sound of incompetence

“It’s, _Do, Re, Mi,_ not _Do, La, Re, Mi_ ,” Thancred tells Ikael, chuckling. He hums the notes, slowly and easily, and Ikael, completely tone-deaf, attempts to copy him.

Thancred smiles. “You are helpless,” he says warmly, but without any real heat. Ikael beams at him, and kicks his booted feet against the rock they are sitting on.

He looks rather cozy today. He is, remarkably, wearing sleeves—an entire sweater, in fact, warm and knitted and a shade of green that is _baffling_ because it… actually matches his eyes. That he managed to colour-coordinate somehow is unfathomable, so Thancred is sure it is completely by accident. Not that it matters, because the sweater dwarfs him anyhow—not least because Ikael is somewhat slight—and the effect in its entirety is rather endearing. Damn him for being able to pull things like that off; Thancred would have surely just received a reprimand and a request to put on something less tight than, well… tights.

Thancred had been… moping, he will admit, about how long it had taken him to travel all the way to Gridania. At times he still sorely misses his ability to wield aether—and at others he does his best to forget about that particular impotence of his. Then Ikael had popped up, trotting around with a twig-like shortbow and dressed like a child. He had brightened up upon seeing Thancred, making a beeline straight for him, and… well. Thancred's mood has since improved.

“ _Do, Re…_ ah… _Di_ ,” Ikael tries, singing badly, and Thancred shakes his head.

“ _Mi_ ,” he corrects.

“What about you?” Ikael says, then grins, gleeful that he has pulled off his jest. Thancred rolls his eyes, pressing back a smile.

Ikael rocks forward a little, before wincing and tugging at his shortbow. He lays it in his lap, staring down at it and curling his tail neatly atop his legs in the way he does when he is trying to decide something.

Thancred surely _hopes_ he is trying to decide something, because it is a miracle he hasn’t gotten himself killed waving that flimsy excuse of a weapon around. Warrior of Light he may be, but when Ikael is bad at something… he is _bad_ at it.

Thancred waits, bumping Ikael’s elbow with his own. The words will come when Ikael wills them.

Surely enough: “So, I was… thinking…” he begins.

Thancred hums. “Always dangerous.”

“Shut up.” Ikael grins, bright. “I was thinking that Gridania is where the Archer’s Guild is, yes, but… I do not wish to train there. I don’t like…” He pauses. Winces.

“Gods, I’m sore,” he mutters. “Well, both physically and metaphorically, I suppose. I know you were posted in Ul’dah, but… have you seen the way they treat Keepers here? ’Tis despicable.”

His mouth twinges unhappily. Thancred makes an agreeing noise, and moves to rub at Ikael’s shoulders. His fingers sink mostly into soft green wool, but he can feel the tense muscle underneath.

“Oh—thank you. Well in any case, I did not want to generate any unnecessary animosity, you know—I’m new, after all—so I didn’t say anything to the guildmaster, but… gods, that poor Keeper girl… I cannot get her to listen to me.”

Thancred glances up, having surreptitiously leaned down to sniff at Ikael’s hair. He is so… soft right now. _Thancred_ wants a sweater—although he can only imagine how much of a small (and readily spent, probably) fortune this one had cost Ikael.

“Thancred, are you listening to me?” Ikael sounds amused. He cranes his neck in Thancred's direction, and Thancred pokes his smile until it turns back around.

“You are ruining the massage,” he says, happily taking a fistful of soft, thick fabric and letting his fingers sink into it.

“My _apologies_ ,” Ikael intones. “Well anyways, I am sure it will all work out… with a little intervention on my part, probably.”

(Thancred is sure, too. Ikael is a… stalwart force against injustice, at times, and even if he tends to babble and fidget around a situation that bothers him—concerning _other_ people—he will, without fail, come around and face it. Thancred is happy in the knowledge that the Archer’s guild is completely unprepared for the whirlwind of sheer stubborn willpower headed their way. So there is… not that much to worry about, truly. Change will come in time, and Gridania will _take_ time.)

Thancred scratches at Ikael’s ears, which flick at him before drooping lazily. Ikael sighs.

“You are not paying attention to what I am saying at all, are you?” he murmurs, leaning back into Thancred's touch.

Thancred is, actually. “You should be a therapy cat,” he says, petting him. “As long as you do not talk, you are _very_ relaxing. And fuzzy.”

“ _Ugh_ , you are such an _arse_ ,” Ikael laughs. Thancred flicks him on his sweater-clad back lieu of a reply, and scoots closer.

“I wish you the best of luck on your quest to solve all of Eorzea’s problems single-handedly,” he says, and adds, over the noise of Ikael’s protests, “But for now, we can focus on the _worst_ offender: your singing. So repeat after me: _Do, Re, Mi, Fa…_ ”

Ikael groans, letting go, Thancred grins, pressing _on,_ and they start again.

~*~

 

extra: dodle for this <:

(full size [here](https://draw-you-coward.tumblr.com/post/171319826857/coloured-dodle-for-latest-drrble-3-aahh))

 


	26. contact

It is probably because he is a miqo'te.

Alright, it _is_ because he is a miqo'te. Ikael is not _that_ dense. There is something… innately cat-like about their behaviour, he supposes—for some absurd reason he has been pointed out the way he sits, of all things—that other races try to… emulate, at times. With mixed results.

Ikael knows he is approachable, and he _tries_ to be friendly, but even he has to reject a few unasked-for hugs and bat away a few grabby fingers reaching for his ears. A… little too often, actually.

He had met a hyur once—a soft-spoken midlander by the name of Oswyn—and they begun a relationship of sorts. But Oswyn had been shy, reaching out with his hands more than his words, and Ikael… hadn’t liked that too much.

Ikael likes being pet, he will admit. It feels nice—and any miqo’te who says it does not is lying. But massages also feel nice, sex also feels nice, and he would not be expected to readily supply that to anyone without so much as a word of consent. Oswyn had scratched his ears, rubbed at the base of his tail, asked Ikael to _purr_ for him, and… Ikael had, hesitantly, if only to please his partner.

Eventually, the small moments of uncomfortableness had gotten to be a bit too much. Ikael had gently pried Oswyn’s hands off of him, and suggested that they perhaps reconsider things, that Ikael wasn’t really what Oswyn had been looking for. Oswyn had listened quietly, had reluctantly backed off with minimal animosity, and they’d gone their separate ways.

Ikael knows—somewhere deep in his mind, even when it is being pointed out to him—that he tends to… let people run him into the ground however they want to, emotionally. He knows, sometimes, that he should stop, that he should put his foot down and refuse to give yet another piece of himself, but… he struggles. If he is helping someone, is it not worth whatever sacrifice he has to make? He knows that it will take from him, but he is prepared to deal with that. He is not willing to gamble with other people when he cannot for sure say how much _they_ will give of themselves, in lack of _him_.

It… is not healthy, he is learning, and sometimes he has to remind himself of that. But then again, fighting people’s battles for them, standing up to armies, freeing nations that are not his—are those not similar situations? And why is that, then, expected of him?

Ikael does not know where to draw the line. And for now… he does not have to. But someday, perhaps… some day he knows he will.

This new thought process of realizing his own sanity is… revealing things to him. He knows now that he can label the feeling he gets nowadays when he is with Alphinaud or Lyse as “neglect”, he knows why he feels different around Aymeric, or Raubahn, or even Nanamo. He knows that while he loves his friends dearly, there is a fundamental _respect_ of him as a person, with feelings, with a life to live, that leaders have been taught to see of all their soldiers and subjects that his friends… lack.

Love feels like… a tie, now. That binds him. It is becoming synonymous with duty. Ikael has never liked the word—too fragile, too fickle. It takes too much for granted and offers nothing in return. He does not like when people throw it around like it is just another word—to him, it will never be. Not in his heart.

But when he has a quiet moment, sometimes, when Y'shtola brings him a confection she has tried that she thinks he will like, or when Urianger quietly suggests a book to him that he finds interesting, Ikael feels it warm his chest briefly. It is enough, then, in those moments. Ikael knows he is alive.

Thancred is holding out… what appears to be a stuffed chocobo, with very long, straggly threads as feathers. It looks rather rough, and not like he had found it propped up against a proud shopkeeper’s window in Ul’dah.

“I bought it for you,” he says.

Ikael is somewhat offended, and… not a bit hurt. “I am not a child,” he replies, frowning.

“I did not mean it like that,” Thancred says. “It is quite soft—I thought you would appreciate it. For when… _if_ you ever need it.”

Ikael reaches out, feels the thin threads on the shaggy little toy.

It _is_ soft.

“Thank you,” he says, taking it.

Thancred smiles, and, as he always does, telegraphs his movements before reaching out to Ikael questioningly.

Ikael ducks his head with a dimple in his cheek, and allows Thancred to ruffle his hair.

Ikael does not require words, mostly—sometimes, he does not even like them. But… there are always ways to ask. Thancred scratches at his ears with a knowing grin, and Ikael rolls his eyes a little at his childish delight before giving him a quick hug.

“Thank you for the gift,” he murmurs, and Thancred's smile lights up his entire face.

~*~


	27. cross-classing

“Hit me!” Ikael called cheerfully, hopping back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Uh,” said Thancred.

He had tried to mimic Ikael’s stance as best he could, keeping his feet apart and his fists loose, but Ikael had shaken his head, told him that the trick wasn’t in mimicry but in _intent_. Thancred could imitate him as much as he wanted to, but he wouldn’t learn unless he was driving the stances _himself_.

Thancred was lost. He knew how to fight with his fists, of course, but Ikael was not teaching him that.

“Do not pick and carve around, as you would with your blades,” Ikael instructed. “Follow through. Keep your strength flowing from one form to the next. Your entire body is your weapon, not just your swiftness or your fists.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying right now,” Thancred returned. “I understand the concept, but I will admit I lack the knowledge for the correct execution.” At least in the way Ikael meant.

“Hm.” Ikael seemed to think for a second, still lightly shifting his weight. Then he smiled as if a thought had occurred to him, and said, “Kick.”

Thancred stepped back quickly to aim his leg at him, but then Ikael had spun _upside-down_ and his entire weight was being driven forward into his foot as he threw a high kick at Thancred's shoulder. Thancred barely managed to catch it. Even so, the force of the blow sent him to his knees and backed him up a few fulms. If he had tried to block instead of absorb its impact, he would have surely shattered the bones of his forearm.

Ikael hopped back into a handstand, then sprung to his feet. Thancred wrung his wrists out.

“It seems,” he said, “That I misunderstood.”

“No misunderstanding,” Ikael said cheerfully, and then, “Front,” and that was all the warning Thancred got before he was being body-checked by 130-odd ponzes of energetic miqo’te.

“Do not brush aside the impact,” Ikael told him five seconds later, extending an arm to help him up. “From the way you just moved, I could have twisted and broken your arm. Take my energy. Absorb and reflect it. Flow with me.”

“Are you going to tackle me again?” Thancred asked, accepting the hand up.

Ikael closed his hand around Thancred's forearm, locking them together. “ _Absorb_ ,” he said, digging his nails in.

Thancred tried to reciprocate, but Ikael yanked him in closer until their foreheads were pressed together. He jerked Thancred's arm upwards, weakening his grip, and held fast.

He dug his nails in harder. They were starting to send little pricks of pain shooting along Thancred's skin.

“Reflect,” Ikael said. “Mirror. Give back the energy I am taking.”

He was slowly twisting Thancred's arm further and further inwards. If he kept this up, his shoulder would dislocate. Thancred grit his teeth, trying to figure out what he _wanted_ —

Ikael _growled_ at him, sudden and vicious, ilms from his face. At the same time, he dug in _sharply_ with his nails, and Thancred instinctively jerked back—

Ikael’s body followed his—he was so _close_ —Thancred could not _move_ like this—he shifted his foot back—

Stepped—

And threw his full weight into his knee, driving it forcefully into Ikael’s side. _Get back!_

Ikael fell to the ground _hard_ , making a choked, gasping noise as the strength behind Thancred's blow crumpled him nearly in half. Thancred jumped back, startled, staring at him with wide eyes.

Then he was kneeling down, checking in on Ikael—he hadn’t sprung back up; was he hurt? _Shite—_

Ikael was… grinning.

“That’s it!” he wheezed happily, ears wiggling. “You’ve got it!”

Thancred let out a quiet breath of relief. “I feared for but a moment that I had hurt you,” he said with a small smile, helping Ikael up.

“You did!” Ikael exclaimed cheerily. “That was extremely painful! Now _again_ , until I say we can stop.”

Thancred groaned inwardly. If Ikael had his way, they would be here… all day, most likely.

Ikael jogged back, preparing to charge him, and Thancred readied himself.

~*~


	28. sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> loosely inspired by this.  
> warnings for blood ment, death ment, general nightmare-y stuff

Ikael dreams tonight of fire and war and blood.

He dreams he is walking, and he hears… laughter. Laughter that echoes through his soul and pulls him forward. He walks, not knowing his surroundings, nor where he came from, nor his destination. His feet are dragging him to where he cannot help but be.

Then he is at Rhalgr’s reach, and he sees… Zenos. Standing tall and proud, waiting for him patiently. His blade is crimson, and his teeth are a brilliant white. He is grinning at Ikael with mad eyes.

He is not the one laughing.

At his feet lie the Scions. They are bloodied and bloodless, freshly killed yet eternally slumbering. Their gazes are sightless, but they stare at Ikael so _accusingly_ …

Zenos is not the one laughing. Ikael listens, in horror, as he starts to recognize the voice. He puts a hand to his chest. It is moving. He feels his mouth, and it is stretched into a grimace of a smile. He laughs, _heartily_ , rejoicing at all this murder and destruction and _death, Death, DEATH—_

Ikael _screams_.

He wakes up with a gasp, shaking. He… is awake. It was a dream. It was…

He is padding out of his room with tremors in his heart. He reaches—a door. He knocks; short, staccato raps.

The door opens. Y'shtola looks past him quietly.

“Ikael,” she says.

“I…” He does not know how to ask. “Please,” he begs.

She beckons, and he stumbles in gratefully. Then she is embracing him gently, resting her head on his heartbeat.

“Be calm,” she says, stroking his back with her fingertips.

Ikael shuts his eyes, jitters out a breath. Y'shtola’s fingers reach his hair, part the strands gently. Brush past his ears. He can hear—feel—the whisper-soft press of her skin.

“Be calm, small Warrior,” she repeats, and he shudders, letting her soothe him.

“Come,” she says, and takes his wrist—not his hand—to let him lie in her bed.

He lays on his back, and tries to regulate his breathing. She pulls the covers up over them, rests her head against his chest.

“Sleep when you are ready to,” she says, taking his hand and placing it to her head, “And not before.”

Ikael stares at her ceiling. He is grateful.

“Thank you,” he breathes. “I am… this means a lot.”

She shuts her sightless eyes. Her fingers rest against his sternum, a light pressure.

“I know,” she says.

She falls asleep. Ikael closes his eyes, and waits.

~*~


	29. affection

“And then I told her, ‘No, you have to add the salted _cream_ to the ice, not milk.’ And she got it! It was delicious, of _course_. Say, you grew up in Limsa, right?”

“Yes,” Thancred murmurs, watching Ikael with a soft smile. They are sitting comfortably on a couch in the reading area, simply chatting. The second volume of Thancred's poetry book lies facedown on the table by their feet, long-forgotten.

“Did you ever have their ice cream? Or were you too busy stealing purses? Well. If you haven’t tried, you simply have to! It’s _lovely_ , Thancred—I’ll take you someday. Oh—we can pay a visit to the Culinarian’s Guild while we’re there too! I haven’t seen them in a while; I wonder how they’re doing…”

Thancred chuckles. “All the better for your acquaintance, I am sure,” he says. His eyes are warm.

“Oh, you.” Ikael play-slaps him lightly on the shoulder. “Stop it. You’ll make me blush. Oh! Did I tell you about the girl who…”

He keeps talking. Thancred listens, smiles, and shifts closer, wrapping his arms around Ikael’s frame and pressing his head down into the embrace.

“Uh?” Ikael sounds surprised. “Thancred?” He hasn’t moved his arms—not that he can, much, with Thancred hugging him like this.

“I am glad you are our Warrior of Light,” Thancred says, and looks up to smile at him. “So glad.”

“Uhh… okay!” Ikael pats him on the head. “Oh, you can be strange some…” He trails off, glancing at Thancred. His eyelids lower.

Thancred chuckles, deep in his chest. “What about this girl?” he asks, leaning back against the couch and rubbing Ikael’s arms. He still does not let him go.

Ikael’s lips part, and for a second he says nothing, watching Thancred. Then he clears his throat, and continues.

“Right; so she had lost her dress, it seems…”

Thancred laughs, and hums, and gives Ikael his full attention.

~*~


	30. appearances

Thancred knocks _again_ , a little louder this time. “Ikael!” he calls in amusement, “Come on! We are going to be late, and you know how Alphinaud _lectures_.”

There is a scuttling sound, and Thancred crosses his arms patiently as he waits. Then the door is opening, and Ikael is pulling Thancred inside.

“Okay, you need to tell me how this looks,” he says, and totters around in a little twirl.

Thancred blinks at him, eyes drifting to the expanse of his back before taking in the rest of the dress. It is long, blood-red, and looks like it must have either cost Ikael a fortune or been gifted to him by a very… gracious admirer.

Ikael himself is quite made-up, his lips painted to match his dress and his eyes artfully done. That must have _definitely_ been someone else—Thancred knows Ikael has little skill in that department. He looks lithe, delicately androgynous in a way that Thancred has seldom seen in full; the way the silk of the dress wraps around his form adds to that effect.

Thancred feels an odd swell in his chest, and blinks at himself, frowning internally. He has no business feeling like a father giving away his child’s hand in marriage—it is _ridiculous_. And he has no… brotherly claim to Ikael either, of course.

Of course.

Ikael flutters a hand at him. His nails, of course, are completely undone. Thancred chuckles to himself. _Figures_.

“Thancred!” Ikael calls anxiously, “Hello? Please be honest.”

Thancred's eyes soften as he looks Ikael up and down again—not to leer, but to simply take him in. He meets his gaze.

“You look beautiful,” he says sincerely.

Ikael’s mouth opens in surprise, and he blinks. Then he is blushing, ducking his head, and Thancred laughs.

“Oh… you cannot just say things like that and expect me to stay calm.” Ikael presses his hands to his cheeks, then deliberately removes them. “Oh, Jandelaine is going to kill me if I ruin his handiwork…”

Thancred chuckles lowly. “Come, let me brush your hair,” he says, heading over to the makeshift vanity Ikael has (seemingly hastily) set up. “You have made it a nervous mess. Sit here, now.”

Ikael is—naturally—rather pretty, in Thancred's opinion. Thancred hasn’t _told_ him this, because he _knows_ , and his ego on that matter is large enough. But… perhaps he should. Sometimes.

To be quite honest, right now he outshines even Lyse—Thancred has seen her already. But, as he is an intelligent man who favours all of his body parts right where they are, he will never say that out loud. She will _know_.

“You look quite lovely yourself,” Ikael hums as Thancred runs a brush gently through his hair. It is even softer than usual, if that is possible. “I think you should probably change your bandana to… hm… a gilded eyepatch, perhaps? But other than that, you are very handsome.” He giggles.

“Please tell me you are joking about the eyepatch,” Thancred says, and Ikael laughs.

Hopefully it will be an exciting night.

~*~


	31. eye

“Oh fabled Warrior of Light,” Thancred says, “My parents were eaten by a goobbue. Can you get them back?”

“Do not be an arse.” Ikael scowls, seating him none-too-gently on the stool. “You are lucky I am here. No one else would want to deal with you.” He picks up the bottle of alchemical oil, briefly flipping it upside down on a wad of cotton before setting it back. His movements are blunt and abrupt.

“I do not have any money, but I can pay you in flowers,” Thancred continues.

“Thancred,” Ikael says shortly, and nothing more. He tips Thancred's face up with clinical gentleness, dabbing at his cheek with the wad.

“It is just a black eye.” Thancred drops his overly cheerful tone. He tries to keep himself from flinching when whatever oil Ikael is applying burns into the scratchy cuts on his skin.

“They were wearing studded knuckles,” Ikael replies. “You are lucky you were bothering someone who had neither the skill nor the strength to fracture your cheekbone.”

“‘Bothering someone?’” Thancred's voice is light, but sarcastic. “My dear Ikael, you act as if you were there.”

“Is that not how it goes?” Ikael’s jaw has a stubborn jut to it. “Go up to a gaggle of pretty people—usually female—say some half-arsed lines, steal their hearts, and break them without a second thought? Although I admit I am surprised; you have not done it in quite a while. Shame; I was beginning to have hope.”

Thancred looks at him, gaze heavy, and says nothing. Ikael finishes cleaning his cuts so they will not get infected, and reaches for the thicker cream that is used for bruises.

“Tell me, then,” he says as he dabs at Thancred's eye, “What happened. Since you are glaring at me so. If I were a lesser man, I might be scared of you, Thancred Waters.”

Thancred closes his eyes as Ikael’s forefinger brushes the delicate skin of his eyelid. He waits to open them again before he says, “I was not harassing them.”

“No?” Ikael raises an eyebrow. “What earned you such… _violent_ rebuttal, then?”

Thancred looks at him, waiting until Ikael drops his hand and crosses his arms. Then he reaches up, and slowly unties the cloth hiding his left eye.

He stares at Ikael, for a long moment. It is _because_ he is staring that he can see his features slacken in realization, can see the surprise creep into his gaze, quickly followed by righteous anger. Thancred huffs out a humourless chuckle.

“There it is,” he says. “My supposed ‘harassment.’”

Ikael closes his eyes. “I am sorry,” he says lowly. He opens them. “I should not have assumed the worst of you. You have more honour than that, at least now.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Thancred says in an equally low voice. It is flattened.

Ikael shakes his head. “I should _not_ have,” he repeats. “I know you better than that.” He bows a little. “My apologies,” he says.

Thancred considers him silently, then sighs, nearly inaudible. “Accepted,” he says. “Now I request that you keep me company instead of storming off to punch some noble brat in the face.”

“In return?” Ikael quirks an eyebrow, hopping up onto a nearby stool. “Alright.”

Thancred shakes his head, and moves to a crate, patting the space next to him.

“You have to do what I say,” he says, “As reparation for being mean to me.”

“Oh, you _baby_ ,” Ikael smiles, but shifts over to join him. Thancred waits a beat, then tugs him in close, leaning his head against Ikael’s shoulder.

“Do you think—” he begins after a moment.

“You are beautiful,” Ikael returns without pause. “Inside and out. Fuck whoever says otherwise.”

Thancred cannot help the small snort that escapes him. “I do not think that would aid my goal, nor would it change their mind,” he says, feeling a smile tug unbidden at his lips. Ikael wheezes a little in surprise, then laughs.

Thancred closes his eyes, leeching Ikael’s good humour and presence. He is glad he can have this.

Perhaps he even deserves to.

~*~


	32. childish

“Ikael—” Thancred says, and Ikael _screams_ at him.

“ _No!_ ” he yells, fury boiling in his blood, “I do not _want_ it! _Gods_ , Thancred—you are no better than the rest of them! You cannot just… just _come in here_ whenever you want and _demand_ things of me! It was too _much_ , tonight! I just want a fucking _break_.”

“Do not yell at me.” Thancred's eyes narrow. His voice is cool. “I have done nothing to you; I am here for support. I do not deserve your ire.”

“I don’t want your _support_.” Ikael _growls_ at him, baring his teeth. “I want to be left alone! Can’t you get that? Can’t one person fucking get that? Get out of my godsdamned room!”

“You are being childish!” Thancred scolds, voice beginning to rise as well. “If you wish me to leave, then _fine_ , but—”

“ _I’m not a fucking child!_ ” Ikael snarls, fists clenched. “I-I’m not—Just because I do things, sometimes, or—or _touch_ things, doesn’t mean I am an _infant_! I can take care of my own fucking self!”

Thancred rolls his eyes. “Yes, because throwing temper tantrums is _so_ mat—”

“It’s not a _temper tantrum_!” Ikael is shouting _loudly_ , now, eyes flashing. “I’m not a fucking—I thought you— _gods!_ Didn’t you—I don’t want _you_ here, and I don’t want your,” he gesticulates angrily at the tray in Thancred's hands, “ _drinks_ , and I don’t want your fucking _toys!_ ” He stalks over to his bed and snatches the stuffed chocobo from underneath the covers. “I do not _want_ your useless fucking present! I never wanted it! Why did you _give_ it to me?!”

He hurls it at Thancred's chest before he knows what he is doing, and—

There is the sound of shattered ceramic as the tray hits the ground and the mugs splinter into a million sharp shards. Hot brown cocoa spills out onto Ikael’s floor in a rapidly growing puddle.

He stares at it, breath hitching.

Thancred stands there quietly, and for a brief, arduous moment, both of them are silent.

Thancred's fingers clench around the stuffed chocobo he has caught. His jaw works as he stares at the mess on the floor.

Then he looks up at Ikael. His eyes are _cold_. “You know what?” he snaps, “You are right. I do not have to do _anything_ for you.” He starts to move.

“Get _out_!” Ikael screeches, but Thancred is already reaching for the door handle. “Get out of my room, and _stay_ —”

The door slams.

Ikael stays there for a moment, his breathing already shaky. Then it gets shakier, and his vision gets blurry, and he brings up his fingers to cover his face as he starts to cry.

~*~

It does not take him long to feel absolutely _terrible_ , guilt clawing at him and rending his heart. He… he needs to apologize; he has been _horrid_ to Thancred, and he does not know if he will be forgiven but it does not _matter_. He… needs to say _sorry_ …

Thancred goes to him first. Of course he does; he is more mature than Ikael in nearly every respect, and Ikael is useless and pitiful sitting on his bed with his head in his knees, tail wrapped around himself, rocking back and forth. Thancred does not pause to knock before entering; he simply comes in, shutting the door behind himself. Then—stops.

“You didn’t clean up,” he says.

Ikael does not reply, but his ears swivel in Thancred's direction, and he breathes slower, so as to listen to him better.  

Thancred sighs. “Fine,” he says, and Ikael hears him start to move around.

Ikael croaks out, “No.”

Thancred stops moving. Says nothing for a moment. Then, “Ikael…”

“No,” Ikael repeats. “I… I’ll mop it up. It is my mess.”

Once again, silence. Then there is more movement, and the weight of someone sitting down on the bed.

Thancred says, “I am still… not happy. About earlier.”

His voice is stiff. Ikael nods, sniffling as quietly as he can.

“I need to say sorry,” he mumbles wetly, after Thancred still has not replied. He scrubs his eye on his kneecap.

He thinks Thancred is going to stay silent, but after a beat he says, “Yes.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Ikael says, voice thick. “I… said horrible things to you and I should not have. Y-you… are very important to m-me and…” His vision is blurring again, and he swallows down the sob that is rising in his throat, “I sh-should not have… I… sh-shouldn’t…”

Thancred makes a breathing noise, as if he is about to speak, and Ikael shakes his head.

“N-no,” he interrupts, talking through the lump in his chest. “You do… a l-lot for me and you do not have to. You know this and y-you… do it anyway. You do not deserve to be,” another sniffle, because his nose is running, “treated like that. I-I am so _s-sorry_.”

Ikael feels a hand on his shoulder, and shakes it off. “You… you can l-leave. I have to d-deal with some things on my own. I’m s-sorry.”

Thancred removes his hand, then sighs. “Fine,” he says. “But if you are determined to suffer alone, then at least accept an inanimate friend?”

Something is being placed gently into the cradle of Ikael’s chest. He blinks, nonplussed, and unfolds a little to reach down and feel—

He starts crying again, at full force. His fists clenches around the small stuffed chocobo as tightly as it can, and he presses it to his chest.

“I thought, since you kept it in your bed,” Thancred offers, “That you did not… _truly_ hate it as much as you said you did. On the rare circumstance that you were simply hurling it at me to… _express_ yourself and not to…”

Ikael _sobs_. This time, when Thancred touches him, he does not shrug it off.

“I-I’m s- _sorry_ ,” he blubbers, and Thancred shushes him in what is a familiar sound by now, wrapping himself around him.

“I know, Ikael,” he says softly.

“I’m a-a… _horrible_ friend,” Ikael whimpers.

“You are not too bad,” Thancred says. “Everybody has a breaking point, hm? To be quite honest, I am surprised you had not reached yours sooner.”

Ikael _has_. But not… not around anyone.

“Here—do not cry.” A hand reaching again, and then Thancred is taking the chocobo gently from his clutching fingers, dancing it up in front of him.

“I am here for you whenever you need me, Ikael,” he says, wiggling it as if it is talking. Ikael watches, eyes peeking out from where he has tucked his head. “‘Even if you are a little mean sometimes, that is okay! Buying me was a good decision and you should never, ever, throw me at Thancred again. I bruised a wing!’”

Ikael laughs through his tears, then sobs again. He hugs Thancred tightly.

“I do not deserve you,” he mumbles.

“Perhaps not right now,” Thancred says. “Or perhaps it is I who does not deserve you, sometimes. But who is keeping track, other than us? In other words; who cares?”

“I c-care,” Ikael says. “I do not wish to tip the scales.”

“Moments like these,” Thancred says, “Where you need this? Where all I have to do is provide some comfort, say a few truths? That is _your_ scale, Ikael. I have my own.”

Ikael blinks at him through his tears, looking up. “What is it?” he asks in a small voice.

Thancred simply smiles.

~*~

“Oh, and I am not cleaning up the hot cocoa,” he adds five minutes later.

Ikael snuggles closer into his chest. “Okay,” he says contentedly, and it is.


	33. silence

Thancred can do _nothing_ here.

These people have neither want nor need of him. There are dozens of adventurers, even at this hour, wandering around, running banal errands, piling cartloads of tomestones onto Rowena’s people. Thancred is… useless.

He breaks up a fight to feel like he is making at least a small difference. He is given an irritated, haughty huff and a coin flicked at his chest in return. He sees two children playing together and gently asks why they are not asleep, and they giggle at him before running off, hand in hand. Thancred stares after them with a small ache in his chest.

He walks around in the shadows, keeping an ear and an eye out for trouble. It is cold and lonely outside tonight, and even the stars seem frigidly distant, high and unreachable. Thancred pulls his collar up.

He scouts the back end of a tavern, because he knows that things sometimes happen near them, and it is better to have a silent hand of help than none at all. He is rounding the corner when he hears a muffled thud, followed by a shuffling noise and giggling.

He looks up. There is… Ikael, steadying himself against the outside wall. Thancred loosens his grip on his dagger.

He begins to say, “What are you—” but he is interrupted by Ikael’s head shooting up and him calling, “ _Thancred!_ ” Then he is charging forward, and before Thancred knows what is happening, he is being tackle-hugged by a clingy, happy, sweet-smelling, most likely quite tipsy miqo’te.

“I missed you so… _much_!” Ikael declares happily, wiggling with his entire body. He giggles.

Thancred huffs out a chuckle, patting him on the head. “Hello, Ikael,” he says, forcing a smile to stretch across his teeth.

Ikael shakes his head at him, tapping him on the nose. “Don’t be sad, Thancred,” he says, and he cannot be _too_ drunk, because he is saying Thancred's name correctly.

“I _love_ you,” he sing-songs.

… Alright. He’s definitely not sober.

Ikael makes a happy noise and snuggles contentedly into Thancred's shoulder. His tail wags, and Thancred's gaze sways with its brown tip.

“Ikael,” he says slowly, and Ikael tightens his grip around him, flicking his ears.

“Mmhm?”

“I should put you away,” Thancred tells him, “Before you get into trouble and I am inevitably blamed.”

“You didn’t do anything, Thancred!” Ikael says directly into his coat, voice muffled. “You’re perrrfect.” He giggles again.

“I sincerely hope that wasn’t a pun,” Thancred says.

Ikael coos at him, and Thancred sighs, shifting him so that he can at least walk. “Do you mind keeping me company?” he asks as he leads them away from the tavern. There is naught he can do with Ikael like this, and he does not feel comfortable simply leaving him.

Ikael looks up to smile at him adoringly, and Thancred, despite himself, feels himself soften somewhat.

“Is that a yes?” he murmurs when Ikael simply makes another indeterminate noise.

“Shh,” Ikael tells him, leaning his head against his shoulder. “No talking.”

“Alright then,” Thancred says in a quiet voice, and smiles a little when that earns him a soft pat on the cheek.

Ikael seems to have an idea of where they are going; he tugs them over to a small stone shack, then proceeds to let go of Thancred, leap, and attempt to haul himself up. After Thancred picks up his stomach from where it has dropped somewhere on the ground at his feet, he follows, hovering close enough to Ikael to catch him should he fall.

He does not, thankfully. On the roof of the shack is—Thancred blinks. A small blanket, kept in place with a few rocks. Ikael sits cross-legged on top, beckoning to him.

“It’s pretty,” he tells Thancred when he settles down next to him. He is pointing up… at the stars? He looks back at Thancred when he does not respond, and beams.

“It is,” Thancred says softly, so as not to get another shushing, and Ikael wriggles against him, wrapping his tail around his waist.

He touches Thancred’s arm, drags his finger along his sleeve, then flips his wrist and opens his palm. In it lies a small, lightly-coloured, pebble-like object, a little less than an ilm in diameter.

Thancred makes a surprised noise, taking it. It is… a type of candy unique to Limsa that Thancred may or may not be rather fond of. How had Ikael…?

“You told me you liked these so much you used to steal a couple every time you passed the sweets cart that sold them,” Ikael says, and suddenly his words are a lot less slurred. “I bought you some. I will give them to you… when I feel like it. When you need a little sweetness.”

He sounds like he is smiling. He wraps an arm around Thancred's shoulders, squeezing.

“I…” Thancred's throat feels suspiciously tight. He clears it quietly, blinking.

“You deserve the most,” Ikael says sincerely, “Of all I can give to you. I only hope that you see that one day.”

Thancred swallows. He does not say anything.

They sit, wordless, until some time has passed. Then Ikael says, “Sing me a song? Of the stars.”

“Will I get another candy if I do?” Thancred asks through a smile.

Ikael hums. “You will get a _song_ ,” he says.

Thancred thinks. Of bright green eyes and a burning heart. Of _Minfilia_ , somewhere far away, a blessing to a cursed world. Of silence.

He sings.

~*~


	34. company

Thancred double-checked the slip of paper he had been given, and steeled himself. Yes, this was the correct address. Yes, Thancred was cold and soaked to the bone, and he needed shelter. No, he did not actually want to go in.

He closed his eyes.

Opened them.

Grit his teeth. And knocked.

He huffed out a harsh breath of air as he waited, shivering. Twelve help him if… _that one_ answered the door. Thancred dealt with enough bullshit as it was.

Thankfully, that was not the case. It was a tall, golden-horned Au Ra that greeted him when the door clicked open, and Thancred sent a quick prayer of thanks to Hydaelyn for his good fortune.

“If you’re selling anything,” said the Au Ra, “We do not want it, and you may leave.”

Thancred bit back a groan. Of _course_.

“Simeon,” he forced himself to say, civilly enough, “My name is Thancred. I’m a friend of—”

“Oh, it’s you!” Simeon blinked at him, leaning against the door frame. “You’re Ikael’s comrade, aren’t you? The one with the child army. Didn’t expect to see you here, I’ll admit.”

Child army? What—

“I… am,” Thancred replied. “And I hate to impose on you, but I must beg of you to perhaps lend me shelter for a few bells, until the rain abates. Ikael gave me… your address, in case I ever had need of it, and you were in the area. I understand if you wish to turn me away, however.”

Technically, Ikael owned the apartment and had gifted it to his retainers for use (and thus Thancred could visit “absolutely whenever he wanted to”), but Thancred was in no position to argue specifics. The best he could hope for was to stay until the rain beating harshly against the windows of the building slowed to a drizzle, perhaps.

“Hmph! I say,” Simeon cocked his head, “It wasn’t very kind of you to not inform us all those months back when Ikael did, in fact, turn up alive! We were halfway to Kugane by the time we finally heard the news. It was a huge mess; I think he even laughed at us! He tried to cover it up immediately, of course—you know how he is—but I was offended! I am no laughing matter, although Gaill probably is.”

“Dear gods,” Thancred muttered to himself. Perhaps he should have simply found a large leaf or something to hide underneath until it the rain stopped.

“Well, what are you waiting for, then? Come in. I am sure Ikael would have our hides if we turned down a friend of his, even one involved with such things as you yourself are…”

Simeon’s voice—thankfully—faded as he walked further into the apartment. Thancred caught the door with a grunt, and followed, looking around. The walls were of a soft honeyed wood, and the floorboards were dark and cherry-red where they were not covered by various rugs and paraphernalia. There was what appeared to be some fishing gear scattered about (mostly next to the fireplace, which did not seem like a good idea). At the far end of the room was a kitchenette, with a small oven. There were a few doors pressed to the walls, one of which Simeon disappeared through. Bedrooms, perhaps? Ikael must have pulled some strings to get a multi-roomed apartment.

Thancred hovered around awkwardly, pressing his hands into his arms to drain the water from his sleeves. Could he sit down? He had no wish to get the furniture wet…

“I’ve called Ikael,” Simeon announced, appearing once again. “He seemed rather alarmed—I am sure he’ll be here at any minute. Gaill is out, by the way; probably fighting something nasty in the name of adventure. I shall retire to my room, then—make sure you open the door when you hear a knock!”

And with a short wave, he left once more. Thancred heard a click as the door latched.

“Great,” he muttered.

Thankfully, Ikael’s ability to worry and fuss was matched by none, and it was not too long before the front door rattled, and quickly unlocked.

“Thancred!” Ikael called as soon as he saw him. He opened his umbrella—now _that_ was a good idea—and set it down near the door before scrambling over to Thancred with his arms outstretched, a worried frown marring his brow.

“Ikael,” Thancred returned, nodding at him. He tried to stop shivering, but he did not think it worked, because the expression of concern on Ikael’s face only deepened.

“You are soaked to the bone, poor thing,” Ikael murmured, pressing his hands into Thancred's sleeves. The fabric made a wet squelching noise, and Ikael tutted at it.

“I’ll go get some nice dry clothes and a towel, okay?” he said, squeezing Thancred's shoulders. “ _Oh_ , you should have come earlier, Thancred! What if you have caught cold? We cannot have that.”

“No; I do not think I could handle _that_ amount of mothering,” Thancred replied, and Ikael must have been very worried indeed, because he only made his foolish little cooing noise—the one that made Thancred feel like a child—and tottered off with an agitated little flick to his tail.

Thancred sighed, beginning to take his boots off. There was no point in prolonging the inevitable.

Ikael came back with not one, but two large, fluffy towels, as well as perhaps five or so shirts and the rest of someone’s entire wardrobe.

“You go dry off and change in the bathroom,” Ikael said, ushering Thancred into the room leading off from the far right of the suite. “Pick what you like. And I’ll make us some tea, okay? Off you go now.”

“Whose clothing is this?” Thancred asked before Ikael could close the door.

“Oh—Gaill’s,” Ikael said easily, waving a hand, and Thancred's answering growl probably went unheard due to the door shutting in his face.

Gaill’s clothing was, unfortunately, remarkably well-fitted to Thancred. Odd; Thancred would have thought that it would have been somewhat looser. Ah well; the gods only knew how that man preferred to dress.

 When he came out of the bathroom, Ikael was standing at the kitchenette, pouring tea into two rather large mugs. His ears swivelled to Thancred, and he called without looking, “I’ll just be a second, yeah? Go sit by the fire.”

Thancred did, easing himself into the nearby rocking chair and closing his eyes as he rocked softly. He no longer had any magicks to preserve his youth, and to be quite honest, sometimes he felt rather more weary than he should. Perhaps he should ask Y'shtola about a similar enchantment that would not have any negative side-affects on him…

“Tired?” said a soft voice, and Thancred opened his eyes to see Ikael holding a mug out to him with a warm smile. He took it, nodding his thanks, and Ikael made a happy little noise before seating himself across from him.

“Do you wish to stay for the night?” Ikael asked. “I do not have a room here, but you may use Gaill’s.”

“Ah…” said Thancred.

Ikael laughed a little. “Or we can gather blankets and cozy up out here by the fire,” he suggested in an amused voice.

“That sounds… rather more lovely than camping outside, actually,” Thancred admitted. Ikael smiled, and Thancred found himself easily returning the expression, comfortable as he rocked back and forth.

They finished their tea in companionable silence, and then started talking quietly, about everything and nothing at all. It was an easy conversation; light and amicable.

Thancred was content.

~*~


	35. cell

“Thancred, you _came_ for me!” Ikael breathes joyously, as if he had expected to be completely left alone and abandoned.

He looks happy--smiling even, but the fingers that are reaching out towards Thancred from between iron bars are smudged and bloody, the face that is beaming at him is dirty and bruised at minimum, and somehow Thancred cannot find it in himself to reflect his good mood.

Thancred is crouching down low, squatting nearly on the ground. He has to in order to see Ikael; his cell is entirely underground, and from what Thancred can tell, the small barred window they are seeing each other through is Ikael’s only source of light.

“Did you spend more time inside this oubliette, or fighting to get to it?” Thancred asks sarcastically. He cannot help the bite to his voice; if Ikael has been starved or injured in here for too long…

“I have only been here for a couple of days,” Ikael says, pressing his face to the bars to see Thancred better. His usually soft hair is dirty and matted, but his eyes are bright. “Most of the fighting was before that; they haven’t given me trouble since.”

“Have they fed you?” Thancred asks.

Ikael’s hum of hesitation is answer enough. Thancred growls in irritation, eyes narrowing. “ _Ikael_ …”

“Actually, it is not an oubliette.” Ikael’s ears perk up as he strives for sudden lexical perfection. “Oubliettes are the little well ones. With the hole at the top, you know?”

“Yes, because I am here to argue semantics, not rescue you,” Thancred says with an eye roll. “Alright; hang tight. Not too tight—you might catch something off the mold on these bars. But tight enough.”

“Thancred,” Ikael calls as Thancred begins to straighten up. Thancred winces and crouches back down.

“Hm?”

“Do… you have any food?” Ikael asks, small and hopeful.

Thancred swallows down the sudden flash in his chest. “No,” he replies gruffly, “But that is the first thing we will get when you are out, okay? I… promise.”

“Okay,” Ikael repeats, and draws back into the darkness, until even the whites of his eyes are no longer reflecting light.

 Thancred rolls his shoulders and gets up, checking his knives. Then, with a huff, he steps into the shadows, and begins.

~*~

There are two guards standing directly outside Ikael’s cell. It is an extraneous effort for a small dungeon like this; and also how Thancred knows that it is, in fact, Ikael’s cell. Additionally, he has been… _directed_ this way by previously alive persons of the area.

The guards are speaking to themselves. Thancred crouches low behind a barrel, and keeps quiet.

“No, can’t get much off it. You’ve seen it—too skinny.”

“Aye, but if ‘e puffs up? Gets all scared, it’ll be more.”

“You reckon we can scare him? Didn’t seem to be easily daunted, but I’m sure if we have at him for long enough, he’ll break. They all do.”

They laugh. Thancred says, “That’s not how fur works,” and kills them with a single flick of his wrist.

He unbars Ikael’s cell door, and then works on unlocking it patiently, forcing his hands to remain slow and steady despite the irritation coiling low in his stomach. He does not wish to botch the lock, and he knows what he is doing—he is trained. Surely enough, soon there are three rapid clicks, and the hinge loosens.

Thancred pushes open the door with a low grunt—it is quite heavy—and sighs in relief when the light reveals a grimy, curled-up miqo’te, one forearm raised across his eyes. Thancred is at the right cell, after all.

He kneels down in front of Ikael, taking his arm and gently pulling it away. “Let’s go,” he says.

Ikael squints at him, flinching away from the light, and Thancred hesitates before quickly untying his bandana and handing it to him.

“If you are fine with not seeing very much, then use this,” he says. “And do not worry about running into anyone. The way is quite clear, I assure you,” he adds sardonically.

Ikael ties the bandana around his eyes with shaking hands, and then offers Thancred's chin a beatific smile. Thancred finds himself subconsciously returning it to a degree—a small twitch of his lips that Ikael can most likely not even see.

He offers Ikael support by holding on to his forearms gently, and Ikael latches on tightly, using Thancred to haul himself up. His legs are trembling somewhat when he stands, but he seems to be able to mostly walk under his own power. Still. Thancred can help.

“Do you have water?” is the first thing Ikael says.

Thancred swings his waterskin around. “They did not even give you _water_?” he demands, opening it up for Ikael to drink from and pressing it into his hand. “Slowly,” he instructs.

Ikael obeys, obediently only taking a few sips at a time. “They did,” he says finally, wiping his mouth and holding the waterskin out for Thancred to take back, “But not too much. I was thirsty.”

“Mm.” Thancred replies, lips pressing together flatly. Ikael’s voice is only a bit scratchy, but if they had planned on giving him the bare minimum to survive, it could have been _weeks_ before he would have been fed.

“Come, come. Let us go find a food stand before you brood the whole establishment down, yeah?” Ikael says, swaying into him playfully. “I am hungry! And you _said_ you’d buy me food.”

“Silly Thancred, not being happy about you very much falling into the wrong side of a risky plan,” Thancred grumbles. “Or thinking that it is only a matter of time before the plan is ‘primal’ and the risk is ‘death.’”

“Oh, hush, you,” Ikael laughs a little. “After all; if I die, I’ll be dead! And so I won’t care. Problem self-solved.”

Thancred snorts—he cannot help it, at the ridiculousness of that statement. “Very well, then,” he grunts in amusement, “Your reasoning is flawless, as always, and I am a fool to think otherwise. Now let’s get out of here.”

He cannot ignore the way Ikael limps as he walks, nor the hitch to his stride, nor the dirt underneath his fingernails, but he can help with it all, given a little time. At the very least, it is not severe.

“Let’s go!” Ikael agrees, cheerfully enough, and they depart.

~*~


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh look an update! wow-

‘ thanced I need to talk to you,” said ikea

‘oh ok about what.” thancred said back while stopping whatever he was doing that i cant be bothered to think about right now

“about.... something,” ikale said sulkingly, his emerald orbs staring at the ground that they were standing on because he was reluctant to say words.

“ at least your not crying, “ said thancred back again and then laughed.

“wow that really hurt my feelings,” said kiael . ‘Im not sure i want to talk to you now”

“babe no come back “ said thancred.

“omg did you just call me babe” said ikal wondrously

“what no i did not.” said thancred back once more.

“you did.” said ikale.

“ok can you guys stop messing around,” said yishtola. ‘ this conversation is pointless’

“your pointless,” said thancred.

“okay i think you guys need to discuss your feelings and things.” said y’shtoia whilst crossing her arms and scowling at both of them with her eyes and also her eyebrows even if she couldnt see because she was blind.

“ok but he usually cries when we do that “ said thancred also crossing his arms to do what she was doing and also not look at ikale.  only partly because he didnt want him to cry also.

‘i dont cry _that_ much’ said ikale, crying.

“yes you do your a crybaby and whiny” said thancred laughing.

ikeal wiped his snot (gross) and eyeballs with his hand, but not with the same hand because thats gross. actually he got a tissue. retcon

“ok so what did you want to talk to me about’ said thancred impatiently a little because they hadn’t started to talk really yet and he wanted to know because he was curious and also impatient.

‘ thancrd im in love with you,’ said ikal

‘what the fuck’ said thancred.

‘omg’ said ikel and started to crying again.

‘no babe dont cry” said thancred

“did you just call me babe again” said ikkeal who stopped crying for a second or three to ask that question and then started back again.

“no’ said thancred.

“you both have terrible taste.’ said yishtola crossing her arms . they were already crossed but she did it again. oops.

“i love you to,’ said thancred while laughing and crying also.

‘whose the crybaby now’ said yishtola whilst crossing her arms

“i like you your so hot and sexy’ said ikaell to thancred but not yishtola because he doesn’t like yisthola. hes gay

“what about my personality’ said thancred with his word mouth.

‘ i dont think you have one of those.’ said ikea

just then a primal burst in andd then killed all of them but ikel because hes the warrior of light. then they all died both thancred and yisthola but not ikel again. then various dead people came back to life and ikeal finally started his harem that he wanted since his first christmas. then he resurrected thancred and they had sex and also adopted some freakish kid with long blue hair and eyes who killed chocobos every now and again but they didn’t question it. then ikale resurrected yishtola because he felt bad for leaving her dead for all of those years. then they

the edn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy April Fool's day guys ;)


	37. treasure hunt

“This is ridiculous.” Alphinaud pulls at his sleeves somewhat nervously, straightening the cuffs.

“Hm. And who was it that dragged me into _his_ little treasure hunt, yeah?” Ikael glances up from his map to shoot Alphinaud a smile, softening his words. This is all in good fun, really, and hey, they might actually get something out of this one.

… Doubtful, but not _impossible_.

“Right; of course.” Alphinaud sighs, appropriately admonished. “My apologies for that again, if it truly ails you. I would have aided you more, had I—”

“Shh.” Ikael reaches out without looking to ruffle his hair. “Pointlessly belated apologies later. Help me look for this first.”

“Oh—o-of course,” Alphinaud stutters, then clears his throat neatly. Ikael once again reaches out, this time to step closer and tug him into a brief, one-armed hug.

“Okay, the _map_ … says... that the next clue is near the ‘Jewel of the North’… Any idea what that could mean?”

“Ah…” Alphinaud licks his lips. “If you are _truly_ determined to go on this ridiculous spring candy hunt—”

“I am.”

“—then I _suppose_ that could be… the giant egg we passed earlier?”

“Oh?” Ikael glances up to peer at him curiously. “What makes you say that?”

“It said ‘Jewel of the North’ on it,” says Alphinaud.

“Hm.” Ikael taps his chin. “You would think I’d notice that, yeah?”

“You would think,” Alphinaud agrees.

Ikael squints at him. “There something you’re trying to say, Alphy?”

“Only that you were… _distracted_ by our tour guide, and I was very much paying attention to my surroundings, as you taught me.”

“Oh ho, trying to surpass the master, hm?” Ikael crosses his arms. “And in my defense, that tour guide was rather… tall, yeah?”

Alphinaud tries his best to not read into any implications in that sentence. His _best_. It is not quite enough. “He was, I suppose. Roegadyn tend to be tall; ‘tis no remarkable attribute.”

“I think we have different definitions of ‘remarkable,’” Ikael comments with a small smirk, gaze going a little out of focus.

“I am _sure_ ,” Alphinaud asserts before this can get out of hand. Ikael laughs at him for a good twenty seconds. At least.

“Alright, alright.” Ikael chuckles a bit as he looks back at his map. “So where was this egg again? Lead the way, oh illustrious pupil…”

He starts giggling again, and Alphinaud sighs, turning around and starting the long trek back to where they had been half a bell ago. This is going to be a long day.

~*~


	38. goodnight

“You and Ikael had a fight,” Y'shtola says to empty air.

Thancred lets out a sigh through clenched teeth, closing his eyes briefly before reopening them. “That _does_ happen sometimes,” he says, not a little snidely.

“Hm.” Y'shtola makes a movement in his periphery. Thancred shakes his head, annoyed, and stalks away.

~*~

He is not in the best mood—somewhat drained, even—and would like nothing more to just collapse on his bed and sleep it off. Or perhaps he can do things the Warrior of Light way and take his frustration out on a training dummy.

He opens his bedroom door, glancing into the room, and stares at the bed.

He closes the door.

There is a familiar, curled-up shape napping on his covers, dark and compact. He must have only just fallen asleep, then, if he is—Thancred shakes any fond thoughts out of his head.

“Ikael,” he says, “Get off.”

He watches as Ikael stirs at the sound of his voice, as his ears twitch and he freezes for a moment before uncurling himself and slowly sitting up. He slides off the bed, gaze directed firmly towards the ground.

Thancred's eyes follow him as he himself takes off his boots and walks towards his bed. He glances at the drooping ears and the tail curled between Ikael’s legs—hm, he has rarely seen it like that—then sits down.

He waits until Ikael is nearly at the door before he says, “Ikael.”

Ikael pauses with his hand raised towards the handle. Thancred can tell he is caught between the urge to run away and escape, or stay, but eventually he drops his hand and turns around halfway. He stays silent, still staring at the ground.

Thancred waits a moment, then grunts and crawls underneath the covers. He shimmies to the wall, facing it, and lifts the blankets behind him.

“Don’t hog the covers,” he says.

He can sense Ikael’s hesitation as he draws whatever ridiculous conclusion that he is bound by pessimism and anxiousness to draw, and then there are the small noises of him slowly shuffling towards the bed.

Ikael gets underneath the covers, movements halted, and Thancred barely feels a tug as he proceeds to lay down as close to the edge as possible, no doubt determined to take up as little space as he can. Thancred feels something softly touch his leg, and then immediately draw back as if he is on fire. Ikael shifts behind him.

Thancred lets a few minutes tick by, and then sighs, opening his eyes. He turns around, and Ikael is—looking at him—he stops as soon as they make eye contact, darting his gaze down.

“Ikael,” Thancred says, sighing once more. He reaches out to brush Ikael’s face with his fingertips. Ikael immediately starts to cry.

Thancred's eyelids lower. “… It is alright,” he says after a moment, and Ikael does not stop. His shoulders begin to tremble.

Thancred closes his eyes. “I am sorry, Ikael. You are sorry. We are both too weary for any fickle disagreements,” he says, and moves forward to wrap his arms around him. Ikael’s entire body shakes as he sobs into the embrace, shuffling closer.

“Shh,” Thancred says quietly, a familiar reassurance. Not in its meaning, but in its sound. Ikael calms eventually, and does not retreat.

“Goodnight,” Thancred says to the moon shining down on them from outside, and Ikael makes a soft noise in return as they both begin to fall asleep.

~*~


	39. minorly wronged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set somewhat as a continuation of chapter 35, "cell"

“’s fine, Thancred,” Ikael mumbles, wiggling until he is lying nearly face-down on his pillow.

Thancred's lips press together briefly. “No, it is not fine. We are hardly short on staff or resources, and she could have given you what you wanted without any trouble. Besides; you are the Warrior of Light. If anyone should be accommodated, it is you.”

“Mm.” Ikael’s tail shifts underneath the blankets as he thumps it lazily. “Don’t say that. ’s not good.”

Thancred sighs, sitting down on the bed. “As much as you dislike admitting it, ’tis true,” he says. “You have done much for these people, Ikael. The least you deserve is a nicer _blanket_ , of all things.”

“I think… you are overreacting,” Ikael mumbles into his pillow.

Thancred looks at him. He reaches down to take Ikael’s hand—bandaged, clean now, fingers limp and curled slightly—and brushes his thumb over it. It squeezes his own hand weakly, and then Ikael is tugging it back, wiggling more as he gets comfortable.

“’m sleep, ‘kay?” Ikael murmurs. “G’night, Thancred.”

It is mid-afternoon. Thancred sighs. “Take as much rest as you have to; Twelve knows you need it. Call one of us if you need anything.”

He leaves Ikael alone to sleep. It has been barely a day since Thancred has half-carried him from the dungeon, and while Ikael is cleaned up and filled with a lot more food now, they are all still worried. Ikael’s cheerfulness has seemingly remained intact, but his body is weak from injury and hunger, and he needs attention before he can run off on his own again.

“How is he?” Y'shtola asks as Thancred carefully closes the door. She is leaning against the wall.

“Sleepy. Unbothered,” Thancred replies.

“Hm.” An ear flicks.

“He likes the blanket you brought him.”

“Of course he does.” Y'shtola lifts her head, but her tail sways a bit at that. She is pleased with the news. “I, at least, can accommodate people’s _simplest_ demands.”

“He could not sleep, once,” Thancred says, “Because the texture of his blanket was bothering him.”

“You are saying?”

“He is exhausted. And he could not sleep.”

Her mouth tightens. “He can sleep now,” she says, half a question. Thancred nods.

“Good.” Y'shtola turns to leave in one primly swift movement.

Thancred glances back at Ikael’s door before following her.

~*~


	40. bread rolls

“Eight!” Alisaie says, a little shrilly. “He said eight!”

“He said _sixteen_ ,” Alphinaud corrects from beside her left elbow. She turns her head to glare at him. “The dough is too big to simply make eight.”

“Eight,” Alisaie says, “ _Each._ You imbecile.”

Ikael, nearly finished with making his glaze, glances over at them. He eyes Alphinaud’s tiny clumps of dough, neatly distributed into sixteen, and then Alisaie’s; slightly uneven, but the correct size.

He makes a thoughtful “Ahh,” noise. They both immediately look at him.

“I am right, am I not?” Alphinaud asks. Alisaie harrumphs and keeps molding her dough.

“You are both right,” Ikael assures, thinking that he might need to fetch a smaller brush for the glazing. “I am sure they can be eaten at whatever size is desired. And the dough looks quite smooth—good job, both of you!” He smiles.

He finishes the glaze as they try and decipher his meaning, and washes his hands while they squint at each other competitively behind his back or whatnot.

“I am sure the rolls will be excellent,” he says. “Three-quarters of a bell more for them to rise—” A little less than that, actually, but that is neither here nor there, “—And we can put them in the oven! The glaze can sit during that time—it will mix better.”

Alphinaud and Alisaie mutter at each other, but seem to glow from the praise, and wash their hands. Ikael wets a cloth, wrings it out, and spreads it over the rolls.

“I think I’m going to nap, yeah?” he says, wiping his hands before heading out to the seating area. “Wake me up in time?”

He is going to meditate, rather, although in a bit of an awkward position, because it will force them to stay around and keep quiet—that is; not argue.

“Of course,” Alisaie says, fetching him a couch cushion. He smiles at her—even if it is a bit firm, the thought is sweet. What a dear.

“You are lovely. Thank you.”

“Do you need a blanket?” Alphinaud asks as Ikael curls up around the cushion.

“Hm?” Ikael replies.

“He never uses a blanket,” Alisaie tells her brother.

“Sometimes he does,” Alphinaud rebuts.

“Shh,” says Ikael. They both issue soft-spoken apologies. Ikael shoves his head underneath the cushion and closes his eyes, content.

Y'shtola comes in at some point to enquire why he is sitting in an odd position with his head wedged between strange things, and is immediately shushed. Ikael feels himself smile—not a little in amusement. Y'shtola makes a neutral noise, and does not point out that he is not, in fact, asleep.

When he can hear quiet, uncertain muttering some time later, he stretches slowly, rolling his neck and squinting up at the ceiling.

“Ah—Ikael!” Alphinaud says. His hands are around a cup of tea. “Full glad am I that you are awake. Why, we were thinking that we’d have to… do whatever with the bread ourselves!”

“Gods forbid,” Ikael replies with a little laugh, and Alisaie, who has gotten up, sits back down.

“Of course waiting for you is a… better idea,” she says.

Ikael chuckles. “I’ll go put the rolls in the oven. Did Y'shtola make that?”

“She did,” Alisaie confirms, picking up what must be her cup of tea. “It is quite good—she has a taste for these things.”

“Excellent! I shall have to have some,” Ikael says. “Alphinaud. Alisaie.” He addresses both of them incorrectly, “I’ll be back in a quarter of a bell or so with bread rolls and some more snacks. Do wait up.”

And so saying, he rises neatly and walks into the kitchen.

“It is a wonder that you got away with what you just did,” Y'shtola tells him from where she is, for some reason, standing in the middle of the kitchen, serenely sipping tea.

“It teaches them self-restraint,” Ikael says as he brushes the dough with the glaze, now ready. “Are you just here for the smell?”

“Perhaps self-restraint means not asking pointless questions,” Y'shtola says in lieu of answering.

Ikael laughs. “Yes—it is nice, isn’t it? Or maybe it is your primal instinct reacting to the gaelicatnip in the glaze.”

“Perhaps self-restraint means not saying things that you incorrectly think are amusing, sometimes,” Y'shtola says in lieu of hitting him.

Ikael laughs again, longer this time, and by the time he is finished, Y'shtola is out, and they are waiting for him to return with food and smiles.

~*~


	41. the little things really add up

“—in the most _inconvenient_ of places, and times, and you sing off-key and you cannot dance and you can be _incredibly_ dense at times—”

“This really isn’t helping me feel any better,” Ikael mumbles, wiping at his eyes.

“My _point_ is,” Thancred says in a somewhat gentler voice, squeezing his arms, “That all of that does not matter, and everyone has their most minor flaws. Little parts of them that are imperfect, like so much of you. And that is alright, and does not mean anything of their worth.”

“Okay,” Ikael says into Thancred's shoulder. “S-so, how you… do that thing sometimes where you go mope and be grumpy for the rest of the day.”

Thancred chuckles lightly. “… Yes, I suppose.” He will humour him.

“And sometimes you’re a little mean and you really _glare_ when you’re annoyed, you know? It’s a drag to be around—and then of course _I_ have to go deal with your pointlessly mulish mood because no one else wants to. Although you are easily bribed out of it, I find.”

“Hm,” says Thancred, somewhat flatly.

“Gods—and you have a lovely voice, but… _timing_ , yeah? Sometimes a cat just wants to sleep.”

“ _Timing_? And the middle of the afternoon is a perfect time to nap, then?”

“When else? I’m sleeping during the night—I do not have free time then.”

“Let me rephrase—the middle of the afternoon in the sunniest spot in the building? Which some of us could be utilizing for, I do not know, reading, or something actually productive?”

“I am sure you are _very_ productive when you’re brooding in a dark and lonely corner.”

“Well at least I do not turn into a _housecat_.”

Ikael squints, then sticks his tongue out at him. Thancred stares for a moment.

He closes his eyes, and starts to chuckle, shaking his head. He sighs to himself, clapping Ikael on the back before embracing him tighter.

“You should come nap with me sometime soon,” Ikael suggests, voice slightly muffled. “It’s been a while.”

“ _No—_ I have things to do, Ikael,” Thancred says in amusement. “I cannot simply waste away bells of what would otherwise be a productive day because I am _napping_ with…”

Ikael draws back only to pout at him.

Thancred sighs, giving in perhaps too easily. “Fine,” he grumbles good-naturedly. “But you are explaining when we inevitably get yelled at.”

Ikael makes that happy noise of his, and Thancred rolls his eyes softly. “Do not coo,” he says.

Ikael coos.

~*~


	42. relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> referring to "ikael's bf" au/verse

“And what do you think?” Ikael asks. His voice is barely audible, quiet, but so is the room around them. And even if outside, nature is living, it is breathing in time with them.

Thancred slowly lifts his wrist, brushes the air with his fingertips until his forearm is held up, straining only lightly—barely noticeable—under its own power. Ikael turns his head. He runs a finger up the skin, until it reaches Thancred's palm. Traces over the veins.

“I think,” Thancred says after a few minutes, “That I selfishly hope this will only make you happy.”

“Selfishly?” Ikael asks. He squeezes Thancred's thumb in between his fingertips, lets go.

“Yes,” Thancred replies.

Ikael’s touch lands on his pulse. It is steady, unhurried.

“It is selfish because it does not wish it to be whole,” Thancred says. “If a relationship is nothing but happiness, then it is shallow.”

“It,” says Ikael.

“You will have to be upset, Ikael,” Thancred tells him, letting his head fall to the side to meet Ikael’s gaze. “You will have misunderstandings, and you will be upset before they are resolved. It is the way of things. In a perfect world, it would not happen.”

“You want me to have a perfect world?” Ikael asks.

“Selfish,” Thancred says, “Because I do not.”

Ikael hums. Off-tune, of course. He seems to think.

“Why?” he asks eventually.

“I want to reach for it,” Thancred says. “I want a world for you without strife, where you will not need it to be understood.”

“That sounds fairly perfect,” Ikael says.

“But at the same time,” Thancred says, “Our relationship would not mean much without its pains, would it?”

Ikael follows Thancred's skin with his gaze until it meets cloth. Hair. He smiles at Thancred's eye.

“You are caught in a paradox, then,” he says.

Thancred closes his eyes. He turns his face towards the ceiling once more, lowering their arms. Ikael’s hand falls loosely beside his, touching but not grasping. He does not like to grasp.

“A year ago I would not have understood what you meant.” Ikael speaks up, “But I do. And him and I have gotten past that, Thancred. Any pain will not be long-lasting.”

“Good,” says Thancred. “You talk to him, then?”

“Not like I do you,” Ikael returns. “But yes. About more than just pretty things and flowers and sex.”

“Disgusting,” says Thancred. Ikael laughs.

“Time to nap,” he declares, wiggling closer until he is using Thancred's entire torso as a pillow, somehow.

“If a bird flies through the window and defecates on me, I _will_ blame you,” Thancred tells him.

Ikael laughs; a scratchy, open sound. It is an odd noise, objectively, but warm. Thancred thinks it is perfect.

~*~


	43. thirst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for all of you who were waiting for something like this ;)  
> note: this is NOT canon with the rest of this verse--but more of a what-if scenario.

Ikael does not think much of the suggestion at first. It is a small, somewhat ridiculous game, perhaps childish—and childishness does not lend itself to seriousness, does it?

A new recruit to the Scions—M’vhin—offers to go first, stuttering perhaps a bit nervously. Ikael looks at him, eyes a handsome face hidden behind all that hair, and smiles.

It lands on Ikael. He fakes shock, presses a hand to his chest, and pretends to be shy about it. From Thancred's quirked eyebrow and Y'shtola’s far-away eye roll (she has distanced herself from what she has called an “immature frivolity”), he is not too convincing.

M’vhin is not a very experienced kisser, and he pulls away nearly immediately, red as flame and muttering under his breath about the _Warrior of Light_ , but it is cute and sweet, and Ikael nevertheless licks his lips afterwards. Thancred's eyebrow quirks higher.

It is Ikael’s turn. He looks around the circle—he can probably manage to skirt around the women to avoid any awkwardness—and spins. The trinket turns, turns… lands on—

Thancred.

Ikael blinks at it, struck dumb for a moment, and then laughs it off. It is _Thancred_ , after all—not anything serious. Thancred has probably kissed most everyone in this room at this point, right? That is just how he is.

Thancred's eyes are lightly amused at Ikael’s reaction, but he does not say anything in either comment or protest, merely moving forward halfway and waiting. Ikael mirrors the movement, pushing forward against the sudden odd drop in his chest. Why is he nervous? It is not as if this is going to change anything—it is just a little game between friends. And they are _good_ friends.

Still, the watchfulness of Thancred's gaze and the odd little knowing tilt to his lips are badgering Ikael, picking at his awareness. He brushes it off, and leans forward, pressing their mouths together.

He stumbles a bit, maybe, at the last moment—must have misjudged the distance—but Thancred's hand goes to his waist, steadying him. His other hand cups Ikael’s jaw, and—this is—not… what Ikael was expecting. Everything is… slow, and… strange, and—Thancred's hand feels warm and secure, fingers gently curling around Ikael’s jaw and brushing against his neck.

Ikael does not know what he is expecting of a man who is more known for the troubles he causes from his endeavors than for any actual experience, but he thinks—maybe—that he has misjudged a bit. Thancred is kissing him slowly and surely, like Ikael is a delicacy he wants to savour.

It is… far too much, and Ikael knows his face is hot when Thancred pulls away, eye slowly opening to look at him. It is warm and molten brown, and its gaze holds Ikael in place even as Thancred's fingers brush against him once more before withdrawing, taking his warmth with them.

Ikael finds himself clearing his throat, first once and then twice, and scuttles backwards as gracefully as he can manage. He feels clumsy, all of a sudden, like the thudding of his heartbeat in his body is forcing him to move like a newborn kit.

It is Thancred's turn now, probably, but Ikael needs a drink of water, and he excuses himself before getting up—with minimum difficulty—and leaving the game.

~*~

Thancred heaves a soft sigh before taking the seat next to Ikael, and Ikael glances up, clutching his empty glass. He… does not know what to say—does he bring up the kiss? Does it matter that much? Surely he is overreacting.

But…

The sound of something sliding against wood grain touches his ears, and he catches the drink with his fingertips, blinking at its contents.

“Something to raise your spirits,” Thancred says in a warm, fairly cheerful voice, and as Ikael looks up to catch his smile, he feels a hand clasp his shoulder.

The hand stays for a small eternity—Ikael is aware of every ilm of it like it is molten gold—and then it is sliding down his arm, leaving small trails of light before leaving.

“Gil for your thoughts?” Thancred says with a chuckle. Ikael finds himself unconsciously smiling back.

“I was just, ah, thinking about all the kissing earlier,” Ikael says, clicking his nails against the drink Thancred gave him. He puts his empty glass to the side.

Thancred will not judge him. Ikael hopes so, at least.

“Ah; I see.” Thancred chuckles softly. The sound is low and warm, and Ikael swallows before sliding his forefinger around the rim of the glass, feeling its shape.

He probably should not say that he wants Thancred to kiss him _again_ , or…

“I need a lay—this is getting out of hand,” he mumbles.

Thancred's eyebrows shoot up. “ _Oh?_ ” he says.

Ikael licks his lips, and then tilts his hand up, swallowing down a large gulp of what turns out to be a sweet, not overly alcoholic brew. Still—it does something for his courage.

“You’re a good kisser,” he stumbles out before he can lose his nerve, and flicks his gaze up to meet Thancred's.

And, _oh_ , Thancred's eye is pinning him down again, the same liquid brown from before fixing him in place. Ikael considers taking another, larger gulp.

“I am glad you approve,” Thancred rumbles, not mocking him at all, and Ikael cannot look away from him. This is too real, too strange—and yet, they are both talking, and they are both serious. And the silk he feels running through him is comfortable, is welcome, and when had it first appeared?

“How do you do it?” Ikael asks, and continues as Thancred tilts his head. “Kiss someone like… Make someone feel as if you treasure them? As if they are worth it? Is it… supposed to be like that?”

He sees, for a moment, an unreadable emotion flit across Thancred's face, but then that warm hand is on his arm again. And this time it lingers, squeezing gentle heat at him.

“Do all of your conquests feel like that?” Ikael questions before Thancred can answer.

Thancred is very close—when had he gotten this close? “You are not a conquest, Ikael,” he murmurs, and his voice is secret and just for them. “You are you.”

“W-well, I should not say ‘conquest,’ really,” Ikael stutters, because he is maybe floundering a bit. “That is a bit… demeaning. But still—does everyone you sleep with—”

“Sleep with?” Thancred has gotten even closer, somehow, or perhaps he has not moved at all. Ikael swallows, looks at the details of his skin as he talks. “Not everyone that gets a kiss is a lover in that sense, Ikael. Sometimes stolen kisses are all one gets.”

 _Stolen kisses_. Ikael wonders if he has stolen a kiss. “I-I-I—you are still not answering the question,” he says. “And you interru—”

“Kisses are for hearts,” Thancred murmurs, and Ikael is sure he only interrupted him again to be an arse. He would huff, but Thancred's gaze is still locking him in place, freezing his vocal chords. “So yes. You are precious, Ikael. You should be treasured.”

Ikael feels his face heat. “W-well, that’s not what I-I was…” He trails off. Thancred does not interrupt him again, damn him. “That… your facial hair is quite scratchy, you know. I do hope you shave bef—”

He snaps his mouth shut. Amusement lights up Thancred's eye.

“I try my best not to give anyone any excessive… scratchiness,” he mutters, smirking like a devil. Ikael scoffs to scold him, although the sound catches in his throat.

“I-I was just s…” Ikael’s voice flees from him. Thancred's hand is climbing to his jaw, again, and Ikael cannot speak against the fire it leaves on his skin.

“I really do hope this is where you were going with all of this dancing around,” Thancred murmurs, and that is all the warning Ikael gets before he slides their mouths together once more.

This time the kiss is deeper, longer, filled with slow molten heat—and Ikael finds himself reaching to grasp Thancred's shoulder, the back of his neck. When they pull away, they do not part, and Ikael drops his head on Thancred's shoulder as he wills his heartbeat to calm.

“Should we retire early?” Thancred inquires, casual as ever, but the _words_ —they are intimate, private. Ikael tries not to lose himself.

He manages a wordless mutter in response, and Thancred's laugh is deep and familiar, rumbling through their bodies.

~*~

 


	44. eggs

“Good morning,” Thancred says.

There are a few low grunts on the other end, and it is nearly a minute before he gets an answer.

 _“Morning,”_ Ikael pants, sounding slightly out of breath. Thancred hums, and flips his eggs.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asks.

 _“Uh—”_ There is a very dodo-like squawk, and a few more grunts. This time when Ikael responds, it is only delayed by a dozen seconds or so.

 _“Just wandered into some… claimed territory,”_ he says.

Thancred makes a considering noise. “Well, don’t die. We need to have you available to throw at primals.”

A surprised laugh. _“Arse,”_ Ikael says. He sounds like he is grinning.

“Mmhm,” Thancred replies. Ikael laughs again.

_“So why are you calling? Just to say hello?”_

“Actually, I am giving the kitchens a shot.” One of the eggs is sticking to the frying pan. Thancred worries at it with his spatula. “Woke up fancying some egg and toast.”

 _“Oh?”_ Thancred imagines Ikael’s raised eyebrow. _“You finally brave enough to try the stovetops again?”_

“What happened with yours was a fluke, I shall have you know,” Thancred says. Ikael makes an amused noise. “But I have called to ask you what to put in this omelet.”

_“You’re making an omelet?”_

Thancred is not making an omelet. He glances at his eggs, and turns the knob to cut off power to the stove.

“Yes,” he says, trying to scrape them onto a plate as quietly as possible.

 _“Hm.”_ Thancred uses Ikael’s considering pause to look for the salt and pepper. _“Well… I know you have a habit of simply adding whatever food you like into what you are making, but that doesn’t always work, yeah? You can never go wrong with cheese—unless you can’t eat it, I suppose. And I know we have green onions—I restocked them recently. How do you feel about mushrooms?”_

“Amenable to them,” Thancred says, fetching a fork.

_“Perfect! I find most people just do not give them the chance, you know? Well, slice all of that up, and maybe stir-fry the mushrooms if you wish to. Do not slice the cheese—grate it. If we have other greens or vegetables, add those to your preference.”_

“Beautiful. Thank you, Ikael,” Thancred says. He stares at his sad, crumpled eggs, and realizes he forgot the bread.

_“No problem! You know I love talking about food. And Thancred?”_

“Hm?” Should Thancred make toast _now?_ Would there be enough time? Wouldn’t the eggs cool? He does not want that _._

 _“I can hear your pitiful scraping through the linkpearl,”_ Ikael says with a smile in his voice. _“You don’t even know where the knives are, do you?”_

Thancred sighs in defeat. “… No,” he admits.

Ikael laughs lightly. The sound is warm, not mocking. _“What is the real reason you called me?”_

Thancred looks around the room. It is… empty. Everyone is out, or in the process of running some errand or other that they could complete in the time it would take Thancred to travel there.

“Bit lonely,” he says.

There is silence for a few seconds. When Ikael speaks again, his voice is softer.

 _“Well, give yourself a hug for me, yeah?”_ he says. _“A big one. For at least half a bell.”_

Thancred snorts out a small laugh, shaking his head lightly. “Aye.”

_“I’m serious!”_

Thancred smiles. “I know, Ikael,” he says, somewhat fondly. “And I shall do my best to hold a memory of a hug close.”

Again, a few seconds pass before Ikael responds. _“You better,”_ he says.

And then, after what sounds like him clearing his throat, _“Oh, I should go before you make me cry! I’ll see you when I see you, Thancred, yeah?”_

Thancred smiles again. “Yeah,” he says, and shuts his linkpearl off.

~*~


	45. aether exhaustion

Y'shtola seats herself further upright as she waits for her bothersome caretaker to return, a light scowl on her face. It is not as if she has _asked_ to be indisposed.

Ikael comes back after not too long, the swish of his tail a faint movement in her senses’ peripheral. He is holding something; a mug? Yes—of… herbal tea. Fantastic.

Y'shtola hates herbal tea.

“Oh, I am sorry—did I keep you waiting overlong?” She can practically _hear_ the worried crease on Ikael’s brow. “Oh, I apologise! Here, you sit back now. Don’t push yourself!”

“Since it is in pushing myself magically that I got to this state after all, ‘tis highly unlikely I will seek to _repeat_ the incident,” Y'shtola says, but lies back, taking the mug. She makes an internal face, but sips at it nevertheless—she of all people knows to take medicine when it is given without fuss.

Hands that are not her own gently position the pillows around her into a more comfortable position. Y'shtola allows this, as well as the soft squeeze to her arm.

“Do you need anything else?” Ikael asks. He is fairly close.

“Not at the moment. And thank you, Ikael.” Y'shtola can retain enough of her good grace to muster up _manners_ , at least. “You are being most kind.”

“Oh, it is nothing! I do not like to see you ill.” Ikael’s weight settles by her feet. “Do you want me to go so you can take some rest?”

She considers. “… I am comforted by your presence, if anything,” she decides, shrugging off any distant embarrassment at admitting that. Ikael does not mock such things. “You have that effect on people. Stay, then, and perhaps tell me about your day.”

“Oh! Okay,” Ikael exclaims softly. He shifts around again, and she moves so he has space to sit next to her. He does so with a pleased little wiggle to his ears.

“Well, today I just went shopping. A little break, you know? And I do love looking at things to buy. But there was this one woman; shy, eyeing a pair of shoes that looked just a bit too expensive for her. And she would not take my money, so eventually…”

He talks, low enough that the words do not grate at her skull. At some point his hand brushes hesitantly against the fur of her tail, and she lets him lightly touch the softness, knowing he has an affinity for that sort of thing.

And she leans back and closes her eyes, even if it does not change much.

~*~


	46. nap aftermath

Thancred wakes up feeling overly warm and smothered, the breeze no longer enough to keep the slow slink of heat away.

Or rather, he corrects himself as he blinks his way to awareness, enough to keep the heat of the _sun_ away, but not the weight of an entire sleep-clingy miqo’te. Ikael is lounging mostly on top of him and is spread, somehow, across the entire breadth of the lounge ottoman.

Thancred groans inwardly. How has he forgotten Ikael does this?

“’kael,” he grunts, allowing himself to use excuse of having just woken up to call Ikael that, “Wake up.”

There is a soft murmur, and Ikael’s ears flick, tickling Thancred's chin. The slow, sleepy movement of his head and the accompanying noise—the _smallest_ of sounds—are endearing enough that Thancred smiles a little against the crushing weight spread over the near entirety of his body.

“’m awake,” Ikael mumbles, and Thancred feels his jaw move as he yawns. Then his limbs are all retreating, and he is curling up into a ball again, rolling over and then flopping down until he can blink slowly at Thancred's face.

“An octopus,” Thancred says.

Ikael’s brows draw together. “Hm?”  

“The way you spread out,” Thancred tries to explain, although he knows it is futile. Ikael always denies it. “You… expand. Then contract.”

Ikael looks at him… looks at him some more… and then squints, eyes turning into tiny scrunched up lines. “I… don’t know what you mean,” he says. Before Thancred can reply, he adds, “Obviously, you moved me.”

Thancred snorts in amusement, but drops the subject, knowing it is a battle he will never win. “Alright, you smug bastard,” he says, “Nap taken. Now it is time to get yelled at for doing nothing.”

“Hm.” Ikael slinks off the ottoman, yawning once more. “I don’t know what you mean,” he repeats.

He stretches. Thancred watches his tail as it straightens out, sticking up. He sighs.

“No, I don’t suppose you do,” he mutters, rolling his neck before sliding off the ottoman himself.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a continuation of a lovely [thing](http://draw-you-coward.tumblr.com/post/174095638002/glyphenthusiast-for-draw-you-coward-keep) someone wrote me of ikael and thancred <3


	47. perfume

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read "What's in a name, anyways?" if you haven't already! It's part 2 of "ikael", I think. Otherwise this won't make much sense!  
> <3

“Ikael? Are you around?” Thancred moves a few crates out of his way as glances around. Ikael had come back some time ago from a trip to the Rising Stones, where he had gone to gather a few things to bring to Rhalgr’s Reach. Better than buying them anew, they have figured. And since Ikael’s grasp of aether as the Warrior of Light is strong enough to teleport a good cartful of goods with him… well. He has nothing better to do, and he volunteered.

Still, he has been down here for a while, and Thancred has not seen him come back up. Perhaps he has dropped something, or accidentally unleased a voidsent into their headquarters. Either way, Y'shtola is getting impatient about an ingredient she has been waiting on for a salve or some such remedy, and Thancred does not particularly wish to face her annoyance if Ikael is too late in providing.

 “Ikael?” he calls out again, glancing around as he steps into a sub-level. He sees footprints and wheel-marks on the stone floor, leading to a closed storage room door. “What is taking so long? I do hope you have not summoned anything deadly and paranatural because you dropped a cursed mason jar or something.”

He is about to open the door when a voice hisses, “Thancred!”

He spins around, alert, and blinks at Ikael—covered in dust, a ratty sackcloth pressed to his nose and mouth.

“Oh, is it poison spores?” Thancred begins to move the collar of his own coat. “Am I going to die?” he adds as an idle afterthought.

Ikael’s eyes roll briefly, but he quickly shakes his head. “Nothing of the sort,” he assures, voice muffled.

“It is just…” He pauses, and Thancred sees the hesitation in his tone leak to the rest of his body. “I… there is a smell. I-I opened one of the crates I found containing our old stuff, and… I-I just don’t… I cannot breathe it in. Is all.”

Thancred tilts his head, sniffing at the air a little. He does not smell anything. He glances at the closed door, and sees that it is quite heavy, the lack of a visible gap around the frame making it very nearly airtight. Any smell on the other side would most likely be contained.

“Are your delicate miqo’te senses fighting against you?” he teases, chuckling. “It cannot be that bad.”

The moment of silence before Ikael answers is telling. “It… is just strong, is all,” he says. “You are right—it will not affect you as much. Would you mind unloading the cart for me? I’ll bake you a cake or something.”

“Hm—no fruits,” Thancred tells him, and turns back to the door. The sound of Ikael quickly scuttling backwards gives him pause, but he shrugs and pushes it open with a low grunt.

At first the only smell is dust and musty wood, and Thancred takes it in with a little confused glance at the toppled cart in the middle of the room. It is lying on its side, contents spilling out, as if someone has dropped it in a hurry. Thancred frowns as he steps closer—most of the items are crated, and there is no telling if there is something fragile inside any of them. Some are labelled, but it looks like Ikael has just grabbed whatever—

The light, sweet scent of a very familiar perfume drifts to his nostrils right before he sees the crate that Ikael has opened—lying on top of the pile. The lid has slid off to the side, and is still obstructing some of its contents, but the rest are clearly visible.

 _Oh_ , is all Thancred thinks, reaching down to slowly pick up one of Minfilia’s scarves.

It is silk—soft and thin. Ikael would like it, Thancred considers idly, then snorts at himself.

He folds the scarf up carefully before lifting the lid off the crate and setting it to the side. The smell of Minfilia’s perfume is not… _strong_ , per se, but it is very much sticking to the items inside the crate.

Which are mostly clothing, Thancred finds as he gingerly searches through it. Otherwise, there is a small, travel-sized hairbrush and a compact mirror. Thancred sighs softly as he looks at the mirror; Ikael had given that to her, along with a comment about liking the flowery design on the front.

Thancred closes the crate and picks it up, glancing around the room. The smell of perfume still lingers some, and if he can smell it, Ikael definitely will. Perhaps Thancred can get a chest to keep all of this in.

He sets the crate down to deal with later, and heads back to the door. It occurs to him, as he opens it, that _he_ will most likely smell now as well.

Ikael has vanished, and Thancred makes sure the door to the storage room is firmly shut before he brushes his hands off as best he can and goes to look for him.

He finds him slumped against a wall, a good distance away from where he had been before. Thancred kneels down in front of him, and Ikael peeks at him from above his cloth. He says nothing.

“… I’ll empty the cart out,” Thancred states after a moment. Ikael nods gratefully, gaze dropping.

Thancred's hand brushes against his hair. “If anything like this happens again, just call me by linkpearl, alright?” he says. Ikael looks at him and still does not speak, but gives another, smaller nod.

“Or if I am not there, call Y'shtola,” Thancred says. At the shift in Ikael’s shoulders, he asks, “Do you want me to tell her?”

Ikael blinks at him. “… I don’t know,” he mumbles. Thancred considers.

“Hm. How about I simply tell her that you are not…” He makes an open gesture, “… amenable to some things, and I will leave it at that. She will respect it.”

Ikael nods again, looking thankful.

Then he pulls the cloth tighter over his mouth, shooting Thancred an apologetic glance. He withdraws, understanding.

“I will go deal with the cart,” he says. “In the meanwhile, perhaps help Y'shtola with her salves? It might mediate her impatient wrath.”

Ikael giggles a little, but nods and gets up, and Thancred watches him as he totters off. Then he rises as well, rolling his shoulders with a sigh. He has work to do.

~*~


	48. axi

“And… she said that she isn’t comfortable with that. That I do not have a… a-a dedicated field healer, as it is.” Ikael fidgets, scratching at the wood grain of their table with his nail.

“Hm.” Axi does not fidget. She is staying very still, sitting up straight with very good posture, actually—it is making Ikael feel not a little self-conscious.

“You know, so…” Ikael scratches a little faster. “If you are… available for this one, may you come with me? I will pay you what you wish.”

Axi finally moves a little; a slight tilt of her head. Ikael lets out a little sigh of relief.

“For… your friend,” she specifies. “So she will not worry about you getting injured?”

“Well—injury is inevitable, of course,” Ikael says, crossing his ankles together as he leans forward. “But for Y’shtola’s peace of mind afterwards. She says that she does not like how… quick some people are. They do not know me, after all. A-and…” His gaze drifts down. “She has had a lot on her plate as of late. I simply wish to ease some of her worry.”

“I know Y'shtola.” Axi tilts her head further. “I met her once, when I was with Mhitra.”

Mhitra? Ikael frowns a little before he remembers. Ah—her sister.

“I know that… your role of choice is not as a healer,” he says. “I have…” He starts to sift through his coin purse. “I can pay… a few hundred thousand, at most—I bought a new scarf the other day, so I do not have—”

He trails off as Axi raises a hand. “Stop,” she says. “Do you still have those powdered mini-donuts from last time?”

Ikael blinks. That had been… some time ago. Does she think he just… keeps them on his person at all times?

“I… can bake more?” he offers.

Axi smiles at him suddenly. “Perfect,” she says. “That is all the payment I require. I make more money than you, anyhow.”

That is… true. And she is much wiser in spending it (although that does not say much).

“Thank you, Axi,” he says sincerely, raising his head as she stands tall above him. “You are my favourite elezen.”

“From the comments I have heard you make about a certain leader of Ishgard,” she says, picking up her grimoire and tucking it away, “I do hope that is not true.”

“Ah…”

There is a sudden, extremely shrill shrieking noise, and Ikael jumps nearly a good fulm into the air, clutching at his chair. He stares, aghast, at the… carbuncle?

“For gods’ sake, shut up,” Axi tells it, snapping her fingers until it trots next to her, glowing tail wiggling. “I did not take that long. And you scared the cat.”

“Uh…” Ikael says.

The carbuncle gives him a look of disdain. Oh. _He_ is the cat.

“Don’t die before the fight, Ikael,” Axi tells him, and gives him a little pat on the head before walking away.

Ikael slumps in his chair. He has… donuts to stress-bake.

~*~


	49. in more than three words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> contains references to scenes from "ikael", so if u read that see if u can catch them hehe

“Hey,” Ikael says when they are both younger and there is still a lingering uncertainty to his questions, a shy touch to his smiles and his eyes. “Are you hungry?”

Thancred laughs—a bit rudely—because right now his skin is soft and his hair is short and his heart is light and somewhat arrogant. “Why; are you going to cook?” he jests. “My good fellow, I’d much rather eat well-prepared food in beauteous company; why, that inn over yonder must have quite a variety of selections!”

He adds a wink and a laugh. Ikael does not blush as he usually does, and his answering smile stutters before blooming, but Thancred does not think much of it. Not when there is better company to be had than bungling novice adventurers, and better food to be eaten than stick-roasted dodo.

~*~

“You want more pie?” Ikael asks casually, and it is on the angry night when Thancred has been drowning his sorrows on a rooftop… when an empty tin that held lemon pie five minutes ago sits between them.

“Ifrit take yer bloody pie,” he growls irritably, but he is more confused than angry, really, and when Ikael laughs and trots away to fetch more, Thancred waits perhaps a bit eagerly for him to return.

No one need know, anyways. And he is sure that no matter whatever kind stroke of whimsy this is, it will not last.

~*~

“Hey,” Ikael says softly when Thancred is recovering from a fever he has been all but _coddled_ over, “Are… you feeling up to eating? Is your appetite back?”

There is soft worry in Ikael’s eyes, and a hint of desperation—of trepidation—that Thancred will only realize is there when he looks back much, much later. But right now he only sees more worry about his health, and he rolls his eyes, waves his hand dismissively. Yes, Ikael, he is _fine_ , and he does not need an extra mother, thank you very much.

~*~

Thancred knows, now. Ikael is surprisingly guarded for one so open—his heart is shielded even if he wears it on his sleeve. It is such an odd juxtaposition that it almost does not make any sense… but it does. Thancred understands now that _love_ does not have to be _trust._ And kindness is not shackled to either.

“Have you eaten?” Ikael asks, eyes soft with worry. He is speaking quietly, so as not to disturb anyone else. The exhaustion in the camp is in every step of every soldier, in every weary sigh of a healer. They are tired, as is everyone else.

Thancred is hungry, _very_ hungry, and though he has realized this some time ago, he has pushed the thought away in lieu of more important things. But no, he has not eaten. Has anyone?

“No,” he tells Ikael truthfully, because there is no need for unnecessary obtuseness, not now. He is too tired for walls—or perhaps there are not any, in the realm of things like these. Trust can be tired, too. It can be weathered.

And it is. Ikael simply nods, and gets them both plain meals to eat. No fuss. And that… fits.

~*~

 “Anyone want food?” Ikael asks one day out of many, and he is, of course, met with laughs and teasing and good-natured taunts. He responds with a chuckle, and goes to get food anyway.

Thancred only smiles a little, because the question has changed—it has not changed, but it has _changed._ It is not the same one that it was when they first met. It is the one that Ikael repeats all the time; with a soft touch on the arm, with a kind word or a fleeting, genuine smile. Not a _question_ , not really.

“I saved the last cookie,” Thancred says when Ikael returns. “For you, since you made them.”

There is a flash of surprise in Ikael’s eyes—and then it softens. Into something warm and understanding.

“You didn’t need to do that,” he murmurs, starting to smile. He takes the cookie. “I’d bake you them regardless.”

“I know,” says Thancred.

He does. And even if a single cookie is no lemon pie…

It will do. It is all he has to offer.

~*~


	50. oh shit it's chapter 50 i didn't notice haha

“Wait—Ikael,” Thancred asks, “You didn’t learn to cook to… impress anyone, did you?”

Ikael turns his head around to stare at him. Thancred is sure it is because he just asked a _ridiculous_ question… or at least he very greatly hopes so.

“… Why do you ask?” Ikael says. “Is there… someone in particular you are thinking of?”

“Ah…” Thancred licks his lips. How does he tread into possibly dangerous territory? With caution. Preferably knives.

“I was just thinking; I was… missing for quite a large chunk of the whole, ah, Ultima debacle,” he offers with a hand wave.

“Mm _hm_.” Ikael does not sound terribly impressed. He does not look it, either.

“And… by the time I came back, you had gotten quite good. If I may say so!” Thancred laughs a little, so Ikael might think it is okay to smile at him.

Ikael does not smile at him. “I _had_ ,” he says, crossing his arms.

Well. There is no truly convenient way to phrase this. “Of course, you were lacking a bit in technique, but you more than made up for it later,” Thancred says pointlessly. From Ikael’s raised eyebrow, his attempt at stalling has not gone unnoticed.

He hurriedly continues, “Anyways—around that time you seem to have… lost any, ah…” He makes an ambiguously blissful face, and Ikael’s eyebrow arches higher. “… lingering sentiment you had previously felt towards me. The passion for food stayed, however! For which we are all eternally grateful.”

He laughs, and gives a little wink. Ikael starts tapping his arm with his finger.

“Thancred,” he says, sounding half exasperated and half indifferently monotonous, “I didn’t learn how to cook because I had a _crush_ on you _._ ”

“Aha,” Thancred says, laughing a little more, “Of course not! I wasn’t… ah, well. I was. Ridiculous question. Do not mind me.”

“You self-absorbed, egocentric _buffoon_ ,” Ikael says with a gratuitous eye roll, and Thancred makes a little offended noise.

“You were _pretty_ , that is all,” Ikael continues, tilting his head and tapping his finger faster. “And superficially charming—but a bit of an arse. More so than now, I mean. Those were the traits I was attracted to, and when they were no longer there—when _you_ were no longer there, they were shallow enough to fade.”

He gives a little smile ( _finally_ , even if it is at Thancred's expense). “It was all that was not superficial about you that made me wish for your true friendship,” he says, uncrossing his arms to touch Thancred's chest with his fingertips. His smile grows, turns into something fond. “I am glad I succeeded in obtaining it.”

“Th-that… is not what I was asking,” Thancred stutters. He clears his throat. Ikael’s smile grows further, and Thancred decidedly ignores it. “It is not relevant to my initial question.”

“Which was?” Ikael's ear flicks. “Ah, yes. Well, I will tell you this—you liking my pie that one time on the roof _did_ give me a good boost in motivation. It was then that I started to take it all more seriously, I think.”

“I do not know what you are talking about.” Thancred knows exactly what he is talking about. “But it is nice to know that I _did_ have an impact. Maybe any egocentrism on my part is not unfounded.”

Ikael laughs. “I am sure it is entirely unfounded,” he says cheerfully. He tilts his head, making as if to think. “Hm… it was lemon pie, if you do not remember. Huh—odd; you have told me since that you like lemon quite a lot! I’d wager a guess and say it is your favourite flavour! Glad I can wrestle the Limsan out of you—gods forbid I make rum-flavoured cupcakes.”

“I—lemon has _always_ been one of my favourites,” Thancred argues, determined not to get caught off guard again. And with _Ikael_ , too—that would be so _terribly_ embarrassing. “You have not… _affected_ me in any way.”

“Of course!” Ikael says, grinning.

“All you do is traipse around all day,” Thancred doggedly continues, “Solving people’s petty problems for gil, spending it all the next day on shoes or something—shoes that do not even _match_ —and then coming home and fussing over us not having completely stuffed ourselves with overly gratuitous dinners.”

“Mmhm!” Ikael is still grinning.

“You are just _here_ ,” Thancred says, “To fight _primals_. And provide entertainment. And food.”

Ikael hugs him. Thancred grumbles, kicks around somewhat, and eventually loosely hugs him back.

“You are irritating and nosy and I hate you,” he mutters.

“Conversely, I like you a lot,” Ikael says back, squeezing him. “Even if you have had absolutely no impact on me as a person.”

Thancred grunts a little in surprise, then huffs out a chuckle. “Very well then,” he says. “It seems we are both on the same page.”

~*~


	51. hi im new

Ukebe could not _wait_ to meet the Warrior of Light.

He was a _miqo’te_ , Ukebe had learned—like him—but he was six fulms tall and had a presence that shone radiance through the blackest of nights to touch the hearts of righteous men. His name was Ikael Jelaar and he was the Slayer of Gods, the Saviour of Men, he was… he was… _magnificent_.

Or at least that’s what Ukebe had learned from the books he had shoved his nose into. The occasional tickle of a dusty sneeze had been worth it.

But finally— _finally_ —he had left the Arcanist’s Guild—with some tears and quick farewells—and had managed to _find the Scions of the Seventh Dawn!_ And _join_ them! Join them! All it had taken was a laugh and a “Sure, mate. I’ll take ye te meet one of the senior Scions, yeah?” and Ukebe was _in_.

Just like that. No pomp or ceremony. No arduous tasks. Just a drive to better the world.

Of course, he was still a recruit, and as such he seemed to be on a… probation period of sorts. Occasionally he would garner a wary eye, and people did not speak of anything truly important near him. Still, that much was understandable—and, quite frankly, to be expected. Eventually, Ukebe hoped, he could earnestly swear himself to secrecy. He really _did_ want to help.

He also wanted to meet the Warrior of Light.

It was one of Ukebe’s first evenings here. The atrium was half empty, and people seemed to be mostly winding down for the day. There were a few odd characters scattered around—a scantily-clad miqo’te sitting oddly at a counter, a lalafell who seemed to be trying and failing to put on a magic trick show, a roegadyn in the corner doing pull-ups from a rafter. Ukebe hoped that the Warrior of Light would show up sooner rather than later.

There was a disgruntled-looking man with a vaguely threatening aura standing with his arms crossed against a wall. Ukebe recognized him—a senior Scion by the name of Thancred, he believed. He started to make his way towards him—perhaps he knew where the Warrior of Light was.

Thancred watched him as he approached, uncrossing his arms. The movement made him seem a little more relaxed, as did the smile he sent Ukebe’s way.

“May I help you, my good man?” he asked, and Ukebe did his best to smile back politely.

“We met just a few days ago. You probably do not remember me, but my name is Ukebe,” he said with a short bow.

“I do remember you, in fact,” Thancred replied with a charming little grin. “The new recruit, yes? Welcome to the Scions. I do hope everything has been to your liking so far. We are a bit of a ragtag bunch, but we get the job done. Well, mostly. Our dear Warrior of Light does the majority of the heavy lifting.”

He chuckled. Ukebe did as well, ears perking up at the mention of the Warrior of Light. Thancred seemed… friendly with him? Or at least comfortable enough to speak of him as such.

“That is actually what I wanted to ask you about,” Ukebe continued. “I… was wondering if you knew when the Warrior of Light would be dropping in? I heard that he visits here often.”

“Ikael?” Thancred asked, one eyebrow arching up to the height of an eyebrow that specifically learned how to do that for dramatic purposes.

The scantily-clad miqo’te off by the counter glanced back at them when he heard the name. Perhaps he was searching for the Warrior of Light as well?

“Ah… yes,” Ukebe replied, watching as the miqo’te drew his legs up over his stool, then tugged at his ankles until he was sitting nearly sideways against the counter. What an odd fellow.

“Ikael is here,” Thancred said, sounding incredibly amused for some reason.

That caught Ukebe’s attention. “What? Here?” He looked around, scanning the room quickly for six fulms of Light and glory. “Where?”

He glanced back at Thancred when he heard him cough lightly, smiling into his fist. Ukebe waited for a response, feeling his heartbeat quicken in anticipation. He was about to meet the _Warrior of Light._

“Over there,” Thancred said, and pointed at the corner where the counters were.

Ukebe stared at the area in some confusion. The only person there was the strange miqo’te (who appeared to be tugging a plate of… pancakes towards himself). He could not make out anyone else, so unless the Warrior of Light was _invisible_ , Ukebe was… missing… something…

“What?!” Ukebe’s voice was perhaps a bit too pitchy and surprised to be entirely polite. “ _Him_?”

“Without a doubt,” Thancred replied, still sounding far more amused than the situation warranted.

Ukebe watched as… the Warrior of Light, apparently, slowly pulled a pancake off the top of the pile and started nibbling at it.

“Is that… how he eats?” Ukebe asked blankly, feeling too lost to come up with a better question.

“Pancakes, yes,” Thancred replied, and Ukebe watched the Warrior of Light eat a pancake with his bare hands for a good thirty seconds before forcing himself to look away.

“I just thought,” he offered helplessly to Thancred's sympathetic face, “that someone who was known as the _Warrior of Light_ would be less… less…”

“I must apologize—I myself recruited him,” Thancred said. “But once you have gotten over yourself, try saying hello to him. He’s always happy to make a new friend.”

And with that, he walked away, humming what Ukebe vaguely recognized as a Limsan pirate shanty. Ukebe stared after him, then back towards the Warrior of Light. He didn’t know what to… what to…

He took a deep, determined breath, then rolled up his sleeves. Well. Might as well make a new friend.

~*~


	52. what do you want?

“I just—” Ikael’s face is half desperate, half upset. “—I-I want to help you! I want to do what I can. With—with—with everything that’s going on, I-I can’t—I’m not—”

Ikael looks as if he is on the verge of tears, and given the spasmodic clenching of his fingers on his tail and the waver in his voice, Thancred guesses that he might very well go over that edge without any further pushing on his part.

“Ikael.” He tries to gentle his tone. He does not know if it succeeds—it is impossible to tell if the way Ikael’s face scrunches up is because of Thancred, or if it is just the next unavoidable sequence in this turn of events. “I _understand_ that. I know that you are sometimes possessed with this unrestrainable desire to overcompensate and prove that you are—”

“I’m not _overcompensating!_ ” Ikael’s voice turns pitchy and wet, and those are the last clear words he says. He drags the back of his hand over his eyes, and when he speaks again, his stutter is back. “I-I-I just wanted t-to do something o-other than—than—I-I wanted to _help!_ I-I’m not doing e-enough. C-cooking is the—is the— _least_ I c-can _do_ —!”

He starts crying in small little hiccupping sobs, and Thancred feels like shite stuck to the sole of his boot—as he always does when that happens. He puts his hands on Ikael’s shoulders, trying to pull him closer. Ikael allows this, at least, which gives Thancred some hope.

“I know you are trying to help,” he says in a low voice, ducking his head down to look Ikael in the eye as best he can. “But when you are overworking yourself like that, all you are doing is worrying us. You have enough on your plate as it is, Ikael; none of us expect more from you. We _can_ cook and care for ourselves, you know.”

“W-w-well, what else c-can I _do?!”_ Ikael cries, hunching in on himself. “I-I just wanted to m-make you h-happy. I thought you wanted me to—wanted m-me t-t-to…”

“Ikael…” Thancred sighs, and tugs Ikael close as he sniffles and hiccups into his shoulder. “Alright. Alright, it is okay. I will speak more once you calm down some, yes?”

Ikael does not have a noticeable response to that, but Thancred nevertheless waits until he starts shaking a little less, until his breathing seems to even out.

“Okay.” Thancred moves his arms from Ikael's back to take him by the shoulders once more, shifting back into much the same position they had been in before. “Listen to me, alright? I am not angry with you.”

Ikael’s eyes shift up to meet his, which is a good sign. Thancred nods, and continues.

“You are too focused,” he chides gently, “on _us_. We are fine, Ikael. You are doing more than enough, and there is no need to try and do even more. Trust me, of all people, when I say that overworking yourself will do the opposite of help.”

Ikael stares at him, and draws in a shaky breath, but nods once, seeming to get Thancred's point. Thancred sighs, squeezing his shoulders, and keeps talking.

“You need to stop thinking of only us,” he says softly. “ _You_ are also important. You should be important to yourself as well, Ikael. So right here, right now, forget about us, or anything we may or may not want.”

Ikael makes a small noise, and wipes at his eyes, but nods again, sniffling. Good; he is listening.

“Let us talk,” Thancred continues, “about what _you_ want. What did you hope to achieve, hm? Why are you upset?”

It is a moment before Ikael does anything, but then he is moving towards the bed, gesturing for them to sit. Thancred obliges, and soon has a lapful of comfortably clinging miqo’te.

“I-I want,” Ikael mumbles, giving a little sniff, “y-you to be h-happy from what I do for you. N-no one… y-you can yell at me for doing things all you want, b-but at least say that you… that you liked the food…”

“Oh, Ikael.” Thancred sighs, absently stroking his hair. “Of course we liked the food. We always like the food. But food does not taste stronger than worry.”

“I know.” Ikael’s voice is getting a little stronger now, which is good. He clears his throat. “I-it just… it hurt a bit, yeah? I… please, if you are going to tell me off… at least acknowledge that I tried my best.”

Thancred nods. “As you say,” he concedes quietly.

“I am not going to… _cry_ about it.” Ikael closes his eyes, leaning his head against Thancred. “I… I’m not _that_ sensitive. You can hurl abuse at me all you wish. I just… it is easier to think, if…”

Thancred mentally frowns at _hurl abuse_ , but nods once more. “I know, Ikael,” he says. “I am not infantilizing you. It is not wrong to feel emotions freely.”

Ikael sighs softly, then adjusts his position, shifting so he is more comfortably settled against Thancred. “I will nap, and then we can speak more,” he mumbles. “I am tired.”

Thancred chuckles. “Alright,” he says, leaning down to take off his boots as Ikael moves to lie on the bed.

Ikael squints at him. “… You're napping with me?”

Thancred gives him a little smile. “I do not see why not,” he says as he settles himself next to Ikael. He moves forward, and gives him a soft kiss on the head. “’Tis the least I can do, after all you have done for us today.”

Ikael stares at him for a moment, then smiles, sudden and warm, and Thancred finds himself responding in kind. A nap, then, and they will speak later.

~*~


	53. cwtch

“You called me in here,” Thancred murmurs, “Just because you are cold?”

Despite the inherent sarcasm of his words, his tone is affectionate, and his gaze more so. Ikael makes a fluttering sound, beckoning him closer with the tips of his fingers.

Thancred obeys wordlessly, the amused twinkle in his eye and the relaxed nature of his movements projecting a warmth that Ikael happily responds to. He opens his arms, straightening up.

Thancred laughs, sinking from his knees onto the bed. Ikael hurries to embrace him, sighing into the soft woolen fabric of his sweater.

“This was a wise purchase,” he mumbles, eyes slipping shut.

“Was it? I shall be sure to thank the man who purchased it for me, then.” There is a smile in Thancred's voice. “Thank you, Ikael.”

Ikael purrs contentedly, wiggling a little closer, a little tighter. It is a moment before he notices Thancred's stillness—until he starts to move again, slowly stroking Ikael’s hair.

“What?” Ikael mumbles, a small pinprick of curiosity drawing the question forth.

Thancred continues to stroke his hair; Ikael feels himself relax. He is not _truly_ that cold, but the closeness of Thancred's soft warmth makes him glad he called him over. He can feel Thancred's heartbeat—feel the vibration of his voice just before he speaks.

“You seldom make that noise,” Thancred mutters quietly. Ikael’s ears lazily swivel to catch the words. “At least, that I have noticed.”

Thancred notices a lot, Ikael knows. “Well, you are not miqo’te,” Ikael says. “We tend to be more… like ourselves, amongst our kind.”

“Makes sense.” Thancred moves them so they are lying down, and Ikael gladly curls up against him. “I do not know if hyur do anything specific, but if we do, you have had the gracious pleasure of experiencing it indiscriminately.”

Ikael laughs, nosing into Thancred's chest. His sweater smells nice—like heat and softness and Thancred.

“Mostly it is just an issue of familiarity,” he explains. “Although of course, I can only speak for myself. I do not wish to be mocked, nor treated like a pet, nor scorned. And I do not think about these things around you.”

His eyes close. “You are safe. _You_ ,” he says, stroking the fabric of Thancred's sleeve.

“Well, I am touched,” Thancred replies lightly, but the way his fingers sweep softly up Ikael's own arm signifies the bare truth in his words. Ikael hums a smile.

“Also, you do not have a strange miqo’te fetish,” he adds. “That is always… unfortunate to discover.”

Thancred's fingers pause. “And when,” he asks after a moment, “Do you usually make that discovery?”

“Ah. Well.” Ikael shrugs noncommittally as best he can while lying down and smushed against another person. “Usually… during. It’s when they have an excuse to get close, you know? Although as soon as something… _weird_ happens, I make sure they are _very_ far away.”

Again, there is a pause before Thancred speaks again. It is quite uncharacteristic of him—should Ikael be worried?

“Good,” is all he says, and Ikael files away any concern away for later as he is squeezed a little, then pet again.

He purrs—just for Thancred, to show he appreciates it, and the petting gets slower. Softer. Ikael smiles.

“If you ever get an actual cat,” he mumbles, “I am going to leave you in a fit of jealous rage.”

His smile widens as Thancred laughs, surprised and genuine. Ikael listens, keeping an ear to the vibrations, and memorizes the moment to lock in his heart.

~*~


	54. my dear friend

“Have you not thought about specializing in other professions? Surely someone of your bearing must have some other skills to their name, no?”

Thancred's words are carefree, and somewhat careless, if he is honest. But he does not mind it overmuch—their newly-titled Warrior of Light is of a cheerful sort, as he has learned over this past year, and is hard to offend. Thancred leans back in his chair, comparing the fullness of Ikael’s glass to his. He had called Ikael over on sight—social drinking with the Warrior of Light, even if neither of them are actually drinking, does wonders for a man’s image.

“Someone of my ‘bearing?’” is what Ikael says, instead of defending his amateur culinary interest as Thancred has expected.

“Ah, you know.” Thancred offers a gleaming smile with a little twirl of his wrist. “Warrior of Light, Saviour of Eorzea… all that. Do you never find yourself drawn to something other than pugilism?”

Ikael glances down at his hands, briefly strokes over his thumb in that odd little way of his. “I am a monk now, actually.”

Thancred knows little of monks. “As of Ala Mhigan monks of eld? Ah—you will have to tell me later. You are avoiding the question, my friend!”

He laughs a little. Ikael looks up, not quite smiling. He takes a slow sip of his drink as his eyes roam across the room—searching for a prompt answer, hopefully.

He sets his glass down after a long moment. “I am not drawn to magicks,” he says. He gives a loose shrug. “I like the martial arts. I get the job done, do I not? I defeat your primals for you.”

“ _Our_ primals?” Thancred laughs some more, but waves his hand. “Very well, then—stay boring. But if you ever wish to be a more interesting combatant, do let me know. Besides, it is quite an attractive trait to be multi-talented!” He winks. “’Tis your loss, Ikael. If ever a rose scorns you for your lack of knowledge, you know who to turn to!”

Ikael looks at him, and still does not give him his usual cheerful smile. Thancred considers it for a moment—then shrugs it off. Everyone has their off days.

“I am not interested in roses, nor in combat,” Ikael says shortly, tone somewhat clipped. Thancred blinks at that. Perhaps an off… week, then.

“I fear I have caused offense,” he says with a friendly smile. “I must sincerely apologize. As you say, you more than get the job done. After all, we would not be sitting here if not for your most gracious victory!”

“If only your sincere apology and excessive flattery would bring back my good mood, yeah?” Ikael says with a wry gleam in his eye. “I am sorry I cannot be a well of endless good humour for you to drain today, Thancred. Perhaps try again on the morrow. Or, gods forbid, drain someone else.”

There is a long pause while Thancred, smile slowly drying off his face, interprets that. Then—before he can say anything—Ikael is pulling back, dropping a few coins on their table.

“I should not have spoken to you like that,” he says, quirking a small smile at Thancred. He rises, pushing in his chair. “I must sincerely apologize. Thank you for the drink, but I fear I must be going. Good day.”

He gathers his things, beginning to turn away.

“Wait.”

The word must be some sort of magic, because Ikael actually stops on the verge of his turn. He looks as if even he has not expected himself to do so, however—and as if he might leave at any moment—so Thancred speaks quickly.

“Please,” he says, “Explain. I did not wish to offend you, truly. And I cannot hope to be your friend if I do not learn how to properly make amends.”

Ikael pauses, and then slowly turns around. Thancred offers him a smile, gesturing back to his chair.

“‘Friend?’” Ikael questions, a hint of the first genuine emotion Thancred has seen all afternoon creeping into his tone. “Why aim for that lofty title?”

Thancred blinks; he… had thought they _were_ friends. Or at least not this far away from it.

“I… apologize,” he says. “It seems I have misjudged a few things.”

Ikael sits once more. He maintains eye contact, and only now is Thancred noticing that he hasn’t been doing so until now.

“Why?” Ikael says. “Because I bake pies for you? Because I add to your chances of getting a lay when I deign to grace you with my presence? Because I kill primals and do not whine about it afterwards? Is that not a ‘friend’ to you?”

Ikael’s tone is not… accusatory, per se, but flat. Not tired, but neutral. Thancred… wonders how long he has felt this way.

“Ikael,” he says, “I…”

“I will help.” Ikael seems to relax somewhat, although his gaze still pins Thancred to his seat. “Do not worry about it. I will keep doing it all regardless. I will keep _caring_ , regardless. You may consider me your friend, if you so wish.”

He breaks eye contact to look around, again. Thancred stays quiet, not wishing to interrupt in case Ikael has more to say.

He does. “Tomorrow,” he says, “I will be cheerful again. In a week, I will fight for the Scions again. I will do what is asked of me. Give more than what is asked of me. Take whatever you wish.”

Thancred glances down at his drink. Ikael says nothing more, and sips at his. He does not leave again.

Around them, people are living their own lives, oblivious to them. Ikael has not been recognized so far, and not a single person has approached their table. It is a moment of quiet loudness that Thancred would appreciate in any other circumstance. But now, he is just waiting. Finally, when the pads of Ikael's fingers begin tapping idly at an empty glass, Thancred speaks up.

“So,” he says quietly, “How did you get into cooking?”

Ikael’s fingers stop.

“I am already your friend, as I have said,” he tells Thancred, a hint of something latently wary in his voice. “You do not need to do that.”

“Ah.” Thancred spreads his hands. “But that is my conundrum, my dear Ikael. You are my friend, yes, but I am not yours.”

Music is playing somewhere, somewhat distantly. Ikael looks at Thancred intently for a long minute. Thancred tries, despite himself, despite everything, to be open. Ikael’s eyes are… green, he notices. Light green.

Then Ikael smiles, small but jarringly genuine. Thancred feels something in his chest unfold; a sharpness he did not know was there relaxing.

“Alright,” Ikael says, and begins to speak.

~*~


	55. fashion choices

“Why do you dress like that?” Alisaie asks one day, idly curious.

“Hm?” Ikael’s tail flicks as he concentrates on what he is doing, carefully finishing a frosted rose petal. “Dress like what?”

He pulls back to admire his handiwork. The delicate red swirls on white icing look quite lovely, if he does say so himself. Cake sculpture is the only artistic skill he has to be good at, and he tries his best.

“What do you think?” he asks Alisaie, stepping back to showcase his design. “I am no good at script work, but I think the roses came out nice, yeah?”

“Ooh; yes,” she says, peering at it. “That is lovely, Ikael. I do hope you are not undercharging whoever requisitioned it from you.”

He waves a hand. “It is a friend of Alianne’s nameday tomorrow,” he says. “Of course I will not charge her! That would be criminal.”

Alisaie shakes her head with a small smile. “Of course,” she repeats. She waits until he has washed his hands and untied his apron, and then beckons for him to take a seat near her.

She nods at his outfit as he tucks his ankles underneath himself. He is barefoot, and mostly barelegged—save a rather short scrap of cloth that barely brushes his thighs. His torso is clad only by a rather thin poncho; his stomach is visible whenever he shifts.

“You do not mind,” she asks, “if people cast judgement on you because of how much skin you show? Or if people objectify you, or judge your body?”

“Hm.” Ikael leans back as he considers the question. He senses no accusation or malicious intent in her tone; she is only questioning him out of genuine curiosity.

“Do you do any of those things?” he asks finally. He tilts his head, gaze darting back over to her. “To me?”

She frowns lightly. “Of course not,” she says. “I think not of such things—and I respect you. Not to mention, it would not be appropriate.”

He smiles. “Then I do not care,” he responds. He adjusts a portion of his poncho, flipping it over one arm.

“If the people who matter to me,” He indicates her, “do not do those things, then why should I worry? And besides, other people’s thoughts are not my responsibility. It is true that it has… come up, in the past, but I have dealt with it. And I still dress this way, yeah?”

He smiles, and Alisaie responds in kind, subconsciously adjusting herself to mirror his pose. His smile is… calming, as if he has not just spent the past two bells running around the kitchen as a harried, energetic blur.

“You are… oddly peaceful, for someone Thancred says is so high-strung,” she says before she can think of her words. Ikael blinks rapidly, a little shocked, and Alisaie’s mouth opens in gradual horror, spots of colour slowly blooming on her cheeks.

“I did not mean—!” She begins to shake her head, but Ikael is already laughing, apparently not offended in the slightest.

“High-strung?” he says, chuckling. “Aye… I suppose I can be. When the situation calls for it, at least. But these past years have taught me to lock that,” He winks, tapping his chest, “Away, for when I really need it. Like when I wish to take advantage of the fact that Thancred is still a believer in the oldest Limsan remedy for stress in the book… and I do not want to pay for my drink.”

Alisaie laughs, a little relieved at his easy temperament. “Of course,” she says. “Or when _he_ takes advantage of your overly worrisome nature to lie and say he has not eaten lunch, and then pack what you give him to eat later for dinner because he is too lazy to make it himself.”

Ikael stares at her for a moment.

“Yes,” he says, his tone flatly incredulous. “Like that.”

Alisaie smiles, and files away a mental note to tell Thancred to avoid Ikael for the next few days.

“Anyhow, how much did that poncho cost you? It is quite nice; I might consider buying one for myself…”

His ears perk up, and he trills out a fairly staggering number that makes her question whether Alphinaud is the only one who needs help with his financial decisions. He laughs at her reaction, waving it off, and before she knows it he has seemingly forgotten about her earlier words, and is telling her the stories of his latest three fashion mistakes.

~*~


	56. rations

“Do not say a _word_ ,” is the first thing Y'shtola says to him, instead of something normal like _Hello, Thancred_ , or _How are you?_

Thancred presses a finger to smirking lips, but mimes a brush as if painting the scene in front of him: Ikael, splayed over the couch, fast asleep and mouth slightly open, and Y'shtola, sitting primly with his head in her lap, running her fingers through his hair.

“I must reassess; you are infuriating even without a mouth,” Y'shtola mutters, evidently having sensed his gestures somehow. Thancred grins, and sits down across from her.

“One and a half,” Y'shtola says when he reaches for the cookies (exactly one and a half) on the coffee table. “And that will be _my_ allowance for the rest of the week. Did you eat yours already?”

“Am I finally allowed to speak?” Thancred murmurs, raising an eyebrow, and she shoots him an unimpressed look.

“Very well,” he continues, chuckling lightly. They both pause when Ikael makes a sleepy noise and shifts a little. Y'shtola stills until he stops.

“I gave the rest of my portion to Alphinaud,” Thancred tells her then, and Y'shtola gasps lightly.

“What?” she says. “After what happened not too many moons ago? Thancred! The boy will devour them.”

He shrugs. “He needs them,” he says cryptically, and takes the half-cookie.

“… Do you think,” Y'shtola begins after a minute, but Thancred is already shaking his head. She keeps on, regardless. “Do you think he will bake more if we ask him? He’s a pushover; we _know_ this.”

“He will not.” Thancred is still shaking his head. “You know not how stubborn he can be. Do you remember the few times when he mysteriously seemed to make _less_ for us?” He waits until Y'shtola nods. “That was because I tried asking him—nicely, if a bit… repetitively—if he would bake more. Do not push him.”

“Hmph.” Y'shtola’s eyes fall, half-lidded. “… Very well, then. It is probably for the best, anyhow. I cannot imagine this is incredibly healthy.”

Thancred shrugs, finishing his cookie. “Why not enjoy life’s short pleasures while it lasts?” he says. “I see no harm in it.”

“Evidently,” Y'shtola mutters shrewdly. He quirks an eyebrow at her with a small grin, but does not say anything, because Ikael is moving again.

And waking up, apparently. He sits up, rubbing into his eyes with his fists, and looks around.

Then he puffs out air through his cheeks and drops his head back into Y'shtola’s lap, his eyes drifting shut once more. Apparently _not_ waking up, then.

“Take exactly a quarter of the last cookie,” Y'shtola says to Thancred, “And we will split it.”

He grins at her, even if she perhaps cannot see it, and gets out his knife.

~*~


	57. tendency to cry a lot

The first time Thancred ever sees Ikael cry is after Ifrit. Ikael is hunched over, nearly curled up on himself at a desk, and he is weeping in small, choked shakes. Thancred feels the guilt stuck like treacle to his stomach spread even further; this is because of _him_ , he knows it. He knew he had not imagined the wildness to Ikael’s eyes when Thancred had finally arrived, nor the expression of something close to betrayal. _He_ is the one who has turned a smiling, wide-eyed adventurer into… this state, and it is all his fault—Ikael will never forgive him.

Thancred vanishes from sight. Ikael had not noticed him.

~*~

Thancred takes a moment, after Ultima, after everything, to gently pull Ikael aside. Ikael’s ears perk up curiously, and he gifts Thancred with a smile, but still—this is a different man than the one Thancred had recruited all those moons ago. The difference is small, yes, but it is there, and Thancred fears it is vital.

“Ikael,” he says, serious for a rare moment, “I wish to apologize. Not because of all the trouble I have caused—that too, of course—but back when you were new to the Scions. When I sent you to fight Ifrit, mine own arrival was less than timely. I should have fought with you.”

He would get brushed off, he thinks, were Ikael anyone else. But Thancred remembers the redness to his eyes when he had quietly arrived in the Solar afterwards, the almost hurt flatness to his gaze at Thancred's praises. And Ikael is… different than other people. Thancred does not know him well enough to tell how—but he is.

Ikael does not say anything for a moment; he looks like he is gathering his thoughts, so Thancred impulsively slips in, “I should not have abandoned you.” It is an add-on to his apology that is not rehearsed. He almost regrets it, but does not pull the words back.

Something strange and almost painful flashes across Ikael’s face for a split second—but then he is nodding.

“Thank you,” he says.

Thancred almost smiles. Of _course_ Ikael would say that, instead of “It is okay,” or even, “I forgive you.” Of course.

He does not know exactly what to make of Ikael’s little mysteries, but it is something that he will only learn with time. And time shall always pass.

~*~

Alphinaud has never seen Ikael cry. Thancred is not… expecting this, exactly. Ikael has a tendency to get misty-eyed over the smallest of gestures; surely Alphinaud must have seen at least this?

He has, but not often, and he does not seem to count it. “I do not know why Ikael has developed such a reputation of indulgent sentimentalism amongst yourselves,” Alphinaud says. “I hardly think the rare times he tears up with a smile are worth noting to that extent. And it is not as if he frees himself to his tears.”

Thancred is caught so off-guard that he has to take a moment to gather himself. Then he inquires, quietly, making sure Ikael is not within earshot, about Lord Haurchefant.

Alphinaud shrugs. “He did not shed a single tear,” he says. “The most emotion he showed afterwards was a sudden burst of anger.”

Thancred considers this, when he has the time to think in solitude. Then he shakes his head with a small smile, and marvels at Ikael's ability to seamlessly sew up his heart, even in seemingly the most extreme circumstances. Even towards Alphinaud, apparently—the diplomat—without him noticing.

But Thancred knows enough about Ikael now to know that there must have been a release, somewhen, somehow. He wonders if anyone bore witness to _that._

~*~

“—and you _cannot._ Do you understand?!”

“Alright,” Ikael says, bowing his head. “I am sorry.”

It is almost worse, sometimes, being someone Ikael now trusts with his emotions. Because he does not try to hide the way he wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, and although he does not do it in such a way as to draw attention to it, of course Thancred cannot help but notice. Even through the red tinge of annoyance clouding his mind, he notices. How can he not?

“I do not mean to yell at you,” Thancred says, almost gentling his voice by reflex. Ikael shakes his head.

“No,” he says, “You are right.” And then he looks up, and oh, that is worse. Because Thancred does not know—does Ikael expect him to react to his tears? Will he be hurt if he does not?

But Ikael does not have a manipulative bone in his body, and it is most likely that he simply does not know what else to do other than be honest. Thancred, right now, barely knows what to do. As it is, he simply stands there and watches as Ikael sniffles a bit, absently dabs at his eyes with the collar of his shirt.

“Do you want… a hug?” Thancred offers haltingly. Ikael looks at him.

“No. I’m okay,” he says.

“… Ah,” Thancred replies awkwardly.

Ikael says nothing more. Thancred resists the urge to scratch at his neck. “Well,” he says, “I… am glad you understand. I…”

Then he shakes his head, and changes the direction of his words. “I do not mean to hurt or offend you, Ikael,” he says. “But I cannot… _not_ say anything to you that—”

“I know.” Ikael cuts him off. “Of course. I would not want you to stop yourself, and definitely not on account of me. That does not mean that it has to feel great. But that is my problem, and not yours. And I have dealt with it all my life, have I not?”

By “dealt with it,” Thancred highly suspects Ikael means either “cried about it in the moment,” or “cried about it later.” Ah well. At least he does not internalize things.

“Well,” Ikael says while Thancred is busy feeling like shite, “I’m going to go to my room and dwell on this a little bit more. If you want food, find me in a few bells.”

He turns to go. Clearly, puzzlingly, _Thancred_ is the one with the problem now, since, in a ridiculous turn of events, Ikael is right. Ikael is used to the way he reacts to things. Thancred… is not quite content with just leaving it as is.

“Wait,” he calls, and Ikael pauses and turns around. Thancred jogs to catch up with him.

“I’ll go with you,” he says. “We can talk. Work on it together.”

There is a moment where Ikael tilts his head, stares at him. Then he smiles, brilliantly.

“Thank you,” he says.

Thancred smiles back. “Thank _you_.”

~*~


	58. fever

Ikael thinks that they… do not quite know what to do with him.

He has not come in making any kind of fuss; in fact, drawing medical attention away from the people who actually need it is the last thing he wishes to do. But a miqo’te in full plate hunched into a corner, breathing raggedly with one hand splayed on the wall to support himself, is hard to ignore forever.

Ikael can feel the chirurgeons’ unease with his presence. It may be the dark crimson stains on black armour, or it may be the sharpness of his greatsword and the whispers of the Ishgardians. Either way, he does not blame them—he just wishes his breastplate will stop throttling him so he can get up and perhaps ask for some water.

At least they have not recognized him. They usually do not if he is not running around in furs and bracers, and besides; why would one search for a Warrior of Light amidst darkness?

Still, he… cannot seem to get up. He sat down, and now he feels so, so heavy. He is sweating and he is shivering and his gauntlets seem stuck to his palms, even if they weigh too much to move now that he has sat down.

He takes a deep breath and draws up his sword, planting it on the ground. He wants to try to get up, but suddenly the murmurs get louder, and the people around him start moving faster, their energies becoming more agitated.

Ikael shakes his head brusquely, blinking sweat out of his eyes. He cannot see. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and instead of sweeping over one eye, it is prickling into his vision and scraping over his skin. He _hates_ how it feels, for a brief, strange moment—like dust and uncomfortable thinness and sticky heat. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore it to gather himself together.

“Ser knight, you have to leave.” It is a gentle voice that is speaking, thin and around his level. A lalafell, then. “You… said you are not injured, and you are making the patients uneasy. Please. They need their rest.”

Ikael forces his eyes open to meet their gaze. “I am sorry,” he says through the sand in his throat. “I did not mean to… do… that. ‘m sorry but I cannot… I cannot get up.”

The lalafell sucks in a distressed breath, and darts their gaze around the wing. Ikael takes the opportunity to close his eyes again, unwittingly losing himself for a minute.

“Ser,” the lalafell whispers, “Please. I… I am sorry that I can’t help you, but my priorities lie with the patients here. If you truly cannot get up, I will have to find someone to escort you.”

“Shtola?” Ikael questions immediately, even if he knows she is not here. It is the first association his mind makes—she is safe, and kind.

Whatever response he would have received to that he will never know, because suddenly his body obeys his mind and he is hoisting himself up. The lalafell goes silent.

Huh. Ikael is surprised he has the strength, but he will not question it. He needs… shelter, and food.

“Inn,” he grunts as a request, and the lalafell points, seemingly relieved to have finally gotten him out of the way.

Ikael manages to drag himself to the inn, and then even inside, although he feels as if his armour is moving him more than he himself is.

“You look like you could use our special,” the innkeeper tells Ikael while he tries to pay attention. “Come back for food, alright, hon?”

Ikael does not tell her that the wood on her counter is making his gauntlets hurt, and instead drops his coin on it and stumbles upstairs.

~*~

“Apparently,” drawls a familiar sardonic voice, “You were causing a ‘disturbance _._ ’”

 _Thancred!_ Ikael thinks, but winces, because Thancred's voice is unnecessarily _loud_.

 _Shh_ , Ikael thinks at him.

“Ikael?” Thancred calls out, and Ikael winces once more. “Where are you? And what’s this pile of metal doing lying on the ground? Do try to clean up after yourself.”

“’m right here,” Ikael croaks, moving his tail so he does not have to move his head, and Thancred makes a surprised noise. The floor creaks, and then suddenly he is a lot closer, leaning down next to Ikael.

“Generally,” Thancred says, “One takes their armour _off_ before throwing it on the floor.”

Ikael did not throw anything on the floor. He simply… stopped standing up.

“Can I have water?” he mumbles, trying to have his eyes be not closed. They flutter open halfway.

Then he is being moved, suddenly, and he grimaces as that shifts the sensation of hot-cold sweating through his skin. His hair moves, brushed aside by what he recognizes as another person’s hand skin—an uncomfortable sensation, especially in his current state—and now there is an entire hand being pressed to his forehead.

“No, no,” he mumbles, making a face and trying to draw away. The hand follows him.

Ikael does not like this. “No!” he says again, dredging up strength out of nowhere to force the hand away with his own. He does not _like_ it!

“Apologies,” Thancred murmurs. “May I use the back of my hand?”

“Don’t touch me,” Ikael mumbles, upset. The feeling is fleeting, however, and he sinks back to the ground, exhausted from that sudden burst of energy.

“Alright.” Thancred's voice has taken on that soft quality to it that Ikael likes. “We need to take your plate mail off, first. You are overheated, to say the least, and I am certain it isn’t helping matters.”

Ikael is shifted around some more, and his armour gets tugged off. At some point he feels an odd touch on his skin and starts to cry, because it _isn’t_ someone else’s skin but it is acting like a hand, and that is wrong. Thancred murmurs a confused apology, he thinks, but does not seem to know how to not do what Ikael does not wish him to do. _Ikael_ does not even know. Ikael just wants to feel calmer and less dizzy.

Now his gambeson is still on, and he is not being moved anymore. It is still too hot—he tugs feebly at the ties.

Leather fingers gently move his own, and Ikael lets his hand drop, mumbling incoherently to himself. He tries to feel the floor, but it is too rough, so he settles for finding and petting his tail instead.

“Do you need something to—” Thancred's voice starts frowning as he cuts himself off. Ikael shimmies out of his gambeson and starts to get up, wobbling unsteadily on his feet.

“’m hungry,” he announces. “I’m going to… cook.”

“Are you,” says Thancred.

Ikael’s undershirt is sticking to his skin. He grabs at it until it comes off. “… Yes,” he replies after what he is sure is only a few seconds.

Thancred has somehow teleported to the other side of the room in those few seconds. He looks back at Ikael now, and raises an eyebrow.

“If you are going to strip, do it somewhere I cannot see,” he says. Ikael makes a rude gesture at him, tottering over to the kitchenette. He is going to _cook_. It is what he is good at. And if he is too hot, then he is sure he can make something… cold.

“You are going to burn yourself again,” Thancred mutters, suddenly moving towards Ikael very quickly. Ikael makes a noise of protest, folding up his arms, and lets himself be steered away. He cringes from the touch of the gloves, drawing up his shoulders, but they immediately move from his bare shoulders to his hips, which are still clothed. He relaxes a little.

“Ikael,” Thancred says in a very steady voice, “I need you to go take a shower for me, alright? I’ll have food for us when you get back.”

Ikael scoffs—that would require _far_ too much walking, and he thinks it is an overall better idea to simply stop moving and collapse somewhere again. He opens his mouth to say as much, but ends up simply staring blankly for a few seconds, idly blinking. What was he going to say? He forgets.

“Besides, you reek,” Thancred says as Ikael gazes at his collar. “If you are going to be ill, at least be less disgusting about it.”

That takes a few long moments to process, and then Ikael slowly looks up at Thancred, hurt—and relaxes when he sees his smile. Ikael smiles back, ears wiggling, and coos at him.

“Alright; no hugs.” Thancred steps back before Ikael can do just that, and Ikael nearly falls down. Thancred gives a short, surprised laugh, apparently amused by something, and takes off his gloves before gently steering Ikael towards a sliding door.

“I believe that is the bathing room,” he says with a smile in his voice. “Do try not to knock yourself unconscious. Do you have a change of clothes in your pack?”

Ikael shrugs, already trying to open the door. He makes a victorious sound when he finally gets it, and slips through.

~*~

It is highly tempting, from Ikael’s position at the bottom of the tub, to simply stay seated there and keep staring up at spray of water above him. His head is pounding, and everything is just hazy and warm and melting all around him. But there is an annoying rapping sound coming from the door which will not _cease_ , no matter how much Ikael internally orders it to. So that is how he eventually ends up stumbling up, pushing the glowing blue shard that deactivates the shower with a scowl.

He reaches for a towel and wraps it around his waist, then stands there shivering for a few moments. He is just about to sink to the ground again when the rapping gets louder and more irritating.

“ _Stop_ , yer givin’ me a headache,” Ikael groans, swinging into the door as he opens it. Thancred stands on the other side, holding something that smells nice and soft.

“Put these clothes on,” he instructs, handing the softness to a bewildered Ikael. “Take your time if you wish, but know that if you hurry, you will get food faster.”

Thancred walks away, and Ikael's nostrils flare at the smell of something warm and tasty. His stomach grumbles at him, a clear noise through the fog that it his mind, and Ikael reprimands it internally.

He eventually manages to get the clothes on more or less correctly, but he does not know what to do with the towel, so he simply clutches it to his chest as he exits. He scans for Thancred, and sees him sitting at the table, considering two steaming bowls of… something.

“Thancrrred,” Ikael mumbles, and takes a few brave steps forward to pause, think, and then drop his towel onto Thancred. “’m here.”

“So you are,” Thancred agrees, getting up. “Why don’t you take a seat? I will be with you in a moment.”

Ikael sits down and lays his head on the table, drawing his legs up until he is more or less comfortable. His eyes start to slide shut.

“Aaaand there we go with the near burning again.” Thancred's voice moves from far to very close in the time it takes for him to finish that sentence. Ikael feels his forearms being moved, and he mumbles a protest, frowning against the loud pulsing in his head. “No—I am sorry for moving you, Ikael, but that is a little too close to the base of the bowl than I am comfortable with. _There_ we go. Good miqo’te.”

Ikael blinks at Thancred hazily, now forced to sit upright again. He is tired. He wants to sleep. He wants his head to stop hurting. He wants… he wants to stop being so hot, and aching, and… and…

“Oh, come now.” Thancred's voice is gentle again. “There is no need for that, is there? I have brought you food; you are hungry, are you not? You certainly sounded hungry just now. Don’t you want to eat?”

“Wanna—wanna—want… I want…” Ikael hiccups. It is getting difficult to breathe—between his throat closing up and the uncomfortable heat stifling him, he is beginning to feel suffocated. He wheezes out a breath, trying to lessen his discomfort.

Something very soft and kind dabs against his cheeks, and then his eyes. “Everything is going to be better soon,” says Thancred. “Eating is not difficult. Is it difficult? It will help you feel better, will it not?”

Thancred is being… _so_ kind to him. Ikael needs to do his best for him—he will try to eat. He takes the spoon with a shaking hand, and sticks it in the bowl. Then, slowly, his mouth. _Chicken and gil bun_ , some half-functional part of his mind supplies.

“There we go.” Thancred smiles. “I knew you could do it.”

Ikael’s vision starts to blur once more. He… has not been taken care of like this in a long time—not completely. He has not felt… he has not felt lo—

“Th-thank…” Ikael’s voice is trembling, “…you.”

“Oh, it is quite alright! You are really no bother to care for. Very compliant, honestly, if you understand what is going on. You are a peaceful sort.”

Ikael does not understand why he would not comply, but he nods, and tries to finish his food so Thancred will smile at him again. It seems to work; in fact, Thancred _keeps_ smiling at him as they eat, and Ikael relaxes as a sort of soft pleasantness washes over him.

He gets up as soon as the urge to sink into his chair and doze off hits him. He has to shake himself to jar his mind back into something of use, but once that is done he pushes down on the table and manages to get up.

Thancred gets up as well. “What are you doing?” he asks, and Ikael’s resolve to wash the dishes starts crumbling at his gentle tone of voice.

“I-I-I’m going to wash up,” he mumbles, peering at Thancred cautiously.

“I can do that,” Thancred says, and keeps going before Ikael can protest. “I do not wish for you to over-exert or hurt yourself. I think that you should get some rest; you need it.”

Ikael’s brain stops working, and he nods dumbly, latching onto Thancred as he stumbles towards the bed. He really is… _exhausted_ by now, and sleep sounds so heavenly…

“That is all I have to do to get you to listen, is it?” Thancred sounds like he is talking to himself; Ikael does not pay him much mind as he coos and cuddles into the mattress. “Have I been doing it wrong this entire time?”

“Thanrrred,” Ikael mumbles tiredly, smiling when Thancred subsequently kneels down to him, “I… want…”

“Yes?” Thancred prompts, rearranging some of the blankets around Ikael. Ikael is less hot, now, but he still feels covered. How… strange.

“Mmhuhh,” he says, and stretches out to loosely drape an arm over Thancred's neck and drag him down.

He falls asleep with Thancred breathing calmly into his shoulder, completely pacified by his closeness.

~*~

Thancred waits until he is sure Ikael is completely asleep before carefully extricating himself, wincing when his back cracks upon straightening up. Ugh.

He scrutinizes Ikael’s countenance as he considers what to do next. Ikael’s skin is still flushed with fever, and he is still radiating an uncomfortable heat. Thancred considers removing the last thin layer of blanket, but decides against it. Feverish Ikael may be, but it is still highly likely that something like that would prevent him from sleeping at all.

Ah well. Thancred sighs, and goes to fetch a washcloth that he can wet. He will have to wash Ikael’s armour as well—the bloodstains on it are doubtless what made that lalafell alert Thancred in the first place. Thancred is not an expert on caring for armour; hopefully Ikael will be coherent enough to instruct him on the morrow.

He does what he can for it after cleaning up and tending to Ikael—placing the chilled cloth on Ikael’s forehead and opening the windows. When the blackness of the plate is no longer tarred by crimson, Thancred gives up and decides to turn in. He sets a glass of water by the bed before rearranging the blankets he had taken from Ikael, laying them on the floor next to him.

“Goodnight, my friend,” he whispers, and leans over to give Ikael a kiss on the forehead before settling in for the night.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "more or less correctly" means ikael's shirt is backwards.  
> 8>


	59. this time of year

It is cold in Ishgard. Thancred should have, he thinks to himself wryly, brought a better coat. He definitely has the money to purchase one now.

“Take one more step and I’ll fuckin’ kill him!”

It is also, Thancred muses, a little unfriendly in the streets at this hour.

“No killing necessary,” he says, holding up his hands. The two-gil cutthroat almost seems to take this as sign of aggression, and tightens his grip around the terrified child’s chest, pressing a dirty knife to an equally dirty neck. Thancred's eyes narrow ever-so-slightly as he tries to gauge how close the poor urchin is to panicking and getting himself killed.

“What is your name?” he asks him, taking a small step forward. “Mine is Thancred. I used to be not unlike you too long ago, you know.”

“Stay—stay back!” The knife draws a drop of blood, and the boy whimpers. Thancred stills, recalculating. The man is jumpy—it is a risk to race the reaction speed of his shaking hands and Thancred's own. Ever dangerous is the untrained hand, driven by fear and desperation.

“Alright, I am staying here,” Thancred says. “How about you, hm? What is your name?”

“’is name is Aurillion,” gasps the child. “An’ ’e’s been doin’ this fer moons! Please, mister, leave while ye still can! I’ll be a’right, I promise.”

“Shut your yapping mouth,” Aurillion hisses, jerking the child’s head back with his hair. The boy’s nostrils flare, but the noise he makes in response is stifled.

So Thancred has unwittingly stumbled upon something, then. But moons-long or not, the child still looks terrified. It is most likely, Thancred realizes with a sick taste in his mouth, that he has no reason to believe he will make it out of this scenario alive.

Thancred takes a step back. “Relax your grip,” he says, “And I will leave.”

He has no intention of leaving, but Aurillion does not know that.

“Don’t want you to leave,” Aurillion spits. “Want your money. On the ground, and kick it over.”

Thancred slowly detaches his coin purse, and equally slowly bends down to lay it on the ground. He can take it back in a few minutes.

“Kick—kick it over!” Aurillion repeats. He does not sound too certain of himself. “And—and no sudden movements!”

“I am not your usual kind of target, am I?” Thancred asks. “You are used to preying on the unwitting nobles who have the unfortunate luck to wander into the lower parts of the Brume, aren’t you? But no one who is armed as well. Certainly no one who is trained.”

Aurillion’s eyes dart to Thancred's most obvious knife, shining wicked and sharp against his thigh. “Kick it _over_!” he repeats shrilly.

“Certainly.” Thancred kicks the coin purse over, and uses the precious fractions of the second in which Aurillion’s eyes dart to it to throw a knife at his hand.

It hits its mark, and Aurillion’s own knife drops with a clatter—Thancred barely has to snarl, “ _Run!”_ before the child is darting away.  

“ _Fury!_ ” Aurillion hisses through clenched teeth, reaching down to pick up his knife once more. “You’ll fuckin’ pay for that, you will. _Gods_ … Come back here, you little brat!”

The last sentence is yelled after the boy, who has stopped a few yalms away to hover uncertainly. Thancred notes his position, takes two steps forward, and crosses blades with Aurillion.

Aurillion fights desperate and brutal, but he is wounded, and Thancred is faster and far more skilled. Aurillion is disarmed in seconds, and has Thancred's knife in his chest—the one he has been eyeing oh-so-warily—a moment later.

Thancred steps back and turns to the boy, leaving Aurillion to fall to his knees with a gurgle.

“Go to House Fortemps,” he says, kneeling down. “Tell the Count everything about has been going on, and what Aurillion has been doing, and you will have help.”

“Mister!” says the boy with wide eyes. That is all the warning Thancred gets before he hears a gunshot, startlingly loud.

He whips around, and… Aurillion is on the ground, eyes wide and lifeless, a gun in his hand and a hole in his head.

“You’re welcome, darling,” says a familiar voice, and Thancred's gaze flicks upwards to see Ikael, clad in his monk furs, ambling towards them and swinging a pistol in his hand.

“Come to check on the local wildlife?” he asks, eyeing Aurillion’s body. “They’re a might frightful this time of year.”

“In the Holy See? They always are,” Thancred returns, straightening up. “Go,” he tells the boy, and that is all the instruction he needs before he runs off.

“Are you wounded?” Ikael asks, eyes raking over Thancred shrewdly. Thancred hums, rolling his shoulders.

“… A scratch,” he discloses, tilting his chin up. “I will see to it.”

“Promptly?” Ikael raises an eyebrow. “Very well, then. Do you have a room for the night?”

A snowflake falls on Thancred's eyelash. He breathes in, then breathes out with a shiver.

“Come.” Ikael is already turning away. Thancred follows wordlessly. “Gibrillont gives me a discount because I covered one of his waiter’s shifts for a week. It was no trouble, honestly—I find waiting tables almost calming, in a way.”

Thancred has known a few waiters, and takes a moment to boggle at the way Ikael’s mind works. Then they are striding forward against the biting wind, and soon The Forgotten Knight is looming over them.

Ikael has apparently already paid for a room, because he orders—with a smile—a couple of meals to be sent up. Thancred follows him when they head upstairs, glancing around. It is a dark place, dour and a little depressing, but Ikael does not seem to be affected by its atmosphere in the slightest.

Ikael unlocks the door to his room with a small hum, and Thancred immediately goes to light the fireplace. He exhales through clenched teeth as he sits in front of it, hands outstretched.

“Coat off, for now,” Ikael instructs, voice getting fainter as he goes to fetch something. “Let me see that ‘scratch.’”

Thancred acquiesces, knowing it would be fruitless to argue. He shivers once he slips his coat off, sliding it on the back of a chair before sitting down. He should get one with sleeves, one of these days.

“I have extra furs if you are cold.” Ikael kneels down next to him, now holding a wet cloth. “Let me see?”

It really is more of a scratch than a cut, honestly. Thancred obliges, and twists his arm towards Ikael so he can see the thin red line on his tricep.

Ikael starts to daub clinically, and presses his other hand to Thancred's chest. Immediately, Thancred feels an unnatural warmth spread through him—some magick that he, of course, cannot use.

“Thank you,” he says. Ikael smiles at him, nods.

“Just shifting some of our energies,” he murmurs, and if he is going to start talking nonsense about realigning chakras and the like, Thancred _will_ tune him out. “I am not cold, so it is no bother.”

He dabs something liquid and odd-smelling onto Thancred's arm. It stings, but Thancred is grateful. In no time he is easily wrapping up the wound, and it is not too long afterwards that their food arrives.

“Roast karakul and rice, hm?” Ikael mutters. He fishes in his pack for a moment before sprinkling something on the meals. Thancred watches, amused.

“What is that deviant concoction?” he inquires.

“Salt,” says Ikael. “Mix well.” He hands Thancred one of the plates before taking the other for himself.

They eat in comfortable silence, Ikael occasionally poking the firepit to coax a few more embers to ignite. He heaps a few furs on Thancred when they are done, making sure he is warm enough thrice over before heading down with their dishes.

“I will go to House Fortemps on the morrow,” he announces when he comes back, “And see to the situation you intercepted.”

Thancred nods. “Aye.”

Ikael smiles suddenly, warm as the fire. “But now we rest,” he says, reaching over to rearrange what looks like a coeurl hide on Thancred's right shoulder. Thancred hums in agreement.

Now, they rest.

~*~


	60. worried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild spoilers for 4.3

“I reached him.” Alisaie sounds surprised. “I reached him before you did.”

Ikael jogs over, glancing down at the still form by their feet. “You sure did,” he says, squeezing her shoulder. “Good job! That’s one thing you mages have on your side: range…”

He lightly steps over the body to search through the desk standing behind it. The surface is clear, all the drawers are empty…

Nothing here. Ikael taps his fingers thoughtfully on the polished wood before heading to check the potted plants. People hide their secret documents in the strangest locations.

“What are you doing?” Alisaie’s voice is poignant and curious. “Are you investigating a _plant_?”

Ikael straightens up, blinking. “Oh,” he says, glancing back at her with a smile, “Forgive me! I am used to doing these sorts of things alone. Ah—the desk was empty, so I am looking here. Try his study? Ideally we will be out before anyone notices we are here.”

Alisaie nods, and vanishes through a doorway. Ikael keeps looking at the plants, considering.

A few minutes of soil-scented searching later, and his hands are empty. He rises with a sigh, and turns to consider the bookshelves. It is _ridiculous_ , but people can also be… ridiculous…. Wait.

“This is ridiculous,” he says out loud, and pushes in the single blue spine that has no text on it.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then there is the tired, groaning whine of a mechanism that has not been oiled for a while, and the bookshelf slides to the side.

Ikael shakes his head. “Ridiculous,” he repeats in low mutter, and reaches into the small compartment the bookshelf has revealed.

His fingers close around a scroll of parchment, there is a distant snap, and the next thing Ikael knows he is lying face-up on the ground, a sharp, throbbing pain in his ankle.

“Hhhh,” he wheezes painfully, drawing up his knee and slowly falling to his side. The wooden panel on the floor that had risen up to strike him slowly sinks back down.

“Ikael!” Alisaie comes rushing into the room. “Are you alright? Good gods.”

Ikael feels the familiar—albeit rushed—tingle of a healing spell, and the pain loses its sharpness.

“’m alright,” he squeaks—and immediately clears his throat. “Ahem. I’m fine, Alisaie. And I found his notes! I think.”

He unravels the scroll he is holding and brings it up to his face. “Yep! This is strange and incomprehensible; must be the formula we’re looking for. Hurray!” he tacks on at the end, because she seems distressed.

His attempt at cheer does not seem to have worked. Alisaie’s youthful face is marred by a frown, and Ikael would get up and brush it off—maybe offer her a cookie—but the dull twinge in his ankle is distracting. He has to deal with that first.

He sits up, pushing himself to stand on one foot with minimum difficulty. Alisaie is still frowning at him, so he hands her the parchment.

She glances it over, then nods and pockets it. “Let us be off, then,” she says. Her gaze drifts to Ikael’s ankle. “What happened?”

“Triggered a trap, I think.” He nods at the panel that had attacked him. “Sprained my ankle, but didn’t break it.”

“You…” Alisaie draws her sword, then spins it around and holds it out to Ikael. “You cannot walk properly.”

Ikael blinks, bemused, then smiles. “Alisaie,” he says fondly, gently pushing her hand away, “Do not do that. I will be fine—and I have a dwelling to go to where I can rest up. I can teleport there.”

“… A dwelling.” Alisaie slowly withdraws her hand, then slips her sword back into her belt. “Of course. And _I_ am left to deliver this to our gracious client, I assume? Of course.”

Ikael tilts his head, slowly rotating his foot. Considers her.

“I will be back in a few days,” he says in a gentle tone. Alisaie twitches. “And I can deliver the formula, if you wish.”

“I can do it myself,” Alisaie replies sharply. Ikael’s eyelids lower a fraction.

“Of course,” he says, giving her a small smile. “I am not patronizing you. Worry not; I will be back as soon as I can, alright?”

He closes his eyes and starts to teleport, homing in on the small apartment he had gifted Gaill and Simeon. Hopefully, they have food. If not, Ikael will have to—

“Where are you going?” Alisaie asks. Her voice is still sharp, but it has a cautious edge that threatens to break. Ikael opens his eyes.

“I bought an apartment for my retainers,” he says, leaning against the desk. “In the Shroud.”

Alisaie says nothing for the moment, so Ikael shifts more of his weight to the desk and keeps speaking.

“I… will make dinner,” he offers, drumming his fingers on the wood. “Gaill will be out, I think, but Simeon is not doing much these days, so I can get him to buy groceries if we do not have any. I am thinking to make something nice and warm; perhaps sautéed chanterelle? I like mushrooms, and I am sure we have some cheese to melt.”

Were this any other situation, it would be an odd time and place to bring up humdrum little topics such as what he will have for dinner, of all things. But Ikael knows what he is doing, and surely enough, Alisaie seems to relax. Ikael smiles reassuringly, easing himself onto the desk. She joins him a few seconds later.

“… Mushrooms?” she enquires, almost hesitantly.

Ikael nods. “Aye. If not chanterelle, perhaps portobello. Do you like portobello?” He turns to look at her.

“I… hardly think my own preferences matter when it comes to your dinner,” Alisaie says after only a moment’s pause. Ikael smiles warmly.

“Come now, I can always pop by to eat with you. After all, Simeon is hardly good company.” He winks. “We have to get out of here now, however, yeah? Go on home, and I will see you in a few bells, Alisaie.”

He ruffles her hair, and begins to teleport again. This time, he finishes his cast uninterrupted.

~*~

“I hope you really do not mind mushrooms,” Ikael declares as he wobbles in with two platefuls of food balanced on the arm that is not clutching his crutch. Alisaie looks up from where she is hunched over in her seat, blinking rapidly. She looks so small and lonely hunkered down like that, poor thing. “I sautéed them in butter, though! And if you do not like it, I will make something here, yeah?”

“By the Twelve, slow down!” Alisaie stands up hurriedly, nearly knocking over the solitary mug on her table. “Here—let me take those…”

She reaches for the plates, and Ikael lets her take them with a smile. He is very good at balancing things, especially plates, but he does not say so out loud. Instead he watches as she takes extra care with the dishes, eventually setting them down directly next to each other.  

She glances at him and pulls out a chair, staying behind it stubbornly until Ikael chuckles and hops over with a “Thank you, lovely.”

 “I’ll get you some water,” she mutters, and is off and back with a glass. Ikael thanks her, smiling.

They begin to eat in contented silence, Alisaie shooting him occasional glances. He wiggles his ears at her each time she does so, and after a few minutes of this gets a smile.

“The food is wondrous, of course,” Alisaie pipes up, seemingly out of nowhere. “I am almost sorry to deprive Simeon of his meal.”

Ikael laughs. “Sorry bastard can cook for himself,” he says. “But—ah. I made some for him anyways. He is off eating in his room like a grump, most likely.”

Alisaie smiles. “Of course,” she says quietly, and Ikael wiggles his ears at her once more just to see that smile grow. It works, and earns him a laugh.  

“I don’t—” She looks down, setting her utensils aside. “I… do not understand,” she says at last. “How can you be so cheerful? You do not seem worried in the slightest. I admit that I… might have cast an unfair judgement at first, but I realized that… you would not be like that. I know you care. I just do not know how, despite it all, you can still find the will to smile.”

Ikael leans back in his chair, putting his fork down as well. Then he picks it back up to eat some more food, because he is hungry.

The action earns him an afterthought of a smile, and Alisaie’s gaze strays to his plate. Ikael chews another bite before answering.

“I _am_ worried,” he says at last. “I always am. About Alphinaud, about Thancred, about Y'shtola. About you. About Krile. Even, vaguely, about Urianger, whatever he is doing nowadays.”

He shrugs, taking another bite. “But I have learned that angry urges do not become me. I will be restless, yes, but nothing can be done of things that are not under my control. Such is the way of things.”

Alisaie looks down for a second, and then picks up her fork once more. “Indeed,” she says quietly. “I will… try to understand that. Knowing something is true does not make it easier to bear.”

Ikael reaches over to squeeze her shoulder. “I will be here,” he says sympathetically. “At least you have me, yeah? Or food, I should say.”

He winks, and she laughs again, relaxing minutely. Ikael smiles, going back to his food.

“I think I will be heading back now,” he says once they have finished eating. “To catch an early night’s rest, mayhaps. Unless you wish for me to stay here? We can cuddle, braid each other’s hair—”

“You are _not_ serious.” Alisaie sounds flatly horrified, although Ikael is sure she secretly wants to cuddle. Everyone does. “ _No_. I am not Thancred, thank you very much.”

“Hm.” Ikael does not mentioned that Thancred had said something very similar, the first time Ikael had asked him. Ah well—he will get to her one day, he is sure of it. He smiles brilliantly. “In that case, I must bid you a good night. Sleep well, yeah? I’ll be back to make breakfast.”

He reaches over to give her a quick hug, but she squeezes tightly for a brief second, and Ikael stays until she is the one to break away. Then he gathers up the plates, and shoots her one last smile before teleporting away.

~*~


	61. literature

“How do you spell ‘comeuppance?’” Ikael asks.

Alisaie narrows her eyes minutely. “If this is an attempt to include me by asking simple questions a child could answer, it is not working,” she says. “On top of which, I am not Alphinaud.”

“It isn’t,” Ikael says, a little hurt. “I just do not know how to spell it.”

He looks down as Alisaie looks up, and crosses out the word. He writes “a stern talking-to” instead, and hesitates on the hyphen.

“It is alright,” he calls out, deciding to include it. Perhaps it will make him look smarter. “I will use other words.”

Alisaie ventures over, and Ikael glances up. She smiles at him a bit hesitantly.

“I apologize,” she says. “My rudeness is uncalled for. What are you writing?”

Ikael smiles back, tail wagging, and shows her the paper. “A letter to my retainer,” he says as she looks it over with a crease in her brow. “He’s had some bad business with a sale gone a little nasty. Poor thing; I’ll bake him a pie after this mess is sorted out.”

“‘He will get comeuppance?’” Alisaie reads out. “Ah—I think it would be ‘He will get _his_ comeuppance,’ if you wish to write that after all.”

Ikael gives a little shrug, still smiling. “I will stick to simpler words which I know how to use,” he says. “You will have to forgive me; I have no Sharlayan education as the rest of you do.”

She sits down next to him, and he wiggles his ears at her before going back to his writing. What kind of pie does Gaill like? … Cherry? Ikael thinks it is cherry. He scribbles down another line about it, just in case he wants something else.

“An education is not quite a measure of intelligence,” Alisaie muses, folding her hands on the table. Ikael makes a noise of agreement.

“True, but it certainly helps in others’ perception of you,” he replies. “I know I do not have a reputation for... being very book-smart. Hah—in one case,” A wry smirk tugs at his lips, “Quite the opposite. But some people are simply bound within their self-made frame of reference.”

He chuckles, shaking his head, and tells Gaill not to eat the whole pie in one sitting. It will be bad for his stomach, not to mention his diet.

“You will regret it in the morning when you will feel as if you are bootshining yourself instead of the training dummy!” he mutters, writing that down as well. Alisaie gives him an odd look.

Ikael adds a few exclamation points, and then a happy face so as not to sound overly alarming. Alisaie says, “May I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.” Ikael scratches out one of the exclamation points. Five is a bit too many, perhaps.

“Did you learn to read and write in your tribe?” Alisaie asks. “I do not know terribly much about miqo’te, but it was of my understanding that such things are only taught when strictly necessary.”

Ikael hums, putting his pen down. He pulls his ankles up to the seat of his chair and wiggles a little, getting comfortable.

“They are,” he says in response to Alisaie’s question. “However, each tribe is different, and there are additional city miqo’te who do not ascribe to tribal rules. It is important to read ledgers and keep track of stocks in Ul’dah, for example. My tribe, on the other hand, was rather traditional.”

He tilts his head. Alisaie is looking at him acutely, paying attention—he smiles at her faintly.

“My mother was more scholarly than most,” he explains. “Partly out of necessity, and partly out of interest. She traded for thaumaturgy tomes when she could, and she had a basic knowledge of conjury that earned her a few additional coins when she needed them. She made sure I knew how to read and write, even if I never quite got good while I was with my tribe.”

He chuckles. “When I arrived at Ul’dah, I put more effort in learning my letters. Which is why my handwriting is at least somewhat legible.” He flashes her a grin. “You would not want to see the chocobo scratch I put out when I was your age.”

“I almost want to!” Alisaie laughs, and his grin widens. “Did she teach you any magic? You say you do not find yourself attuned to it, but…”

Ikael taps the pads of his fingers on the table as he thinks. “A little,” he says. “Very small things, like how to conjure a spark or dull a papercut. I later learned how to perform some physical magicks to help with what I know of monk energy displacement—how to rechannel it towards different effects, mostly, or manage my qi.”

“So I have heard,” Alisaie says with a smile. “Or rather, so _others_ have heard, and been vocal in exactly how _much_ they have heard.”

Ikael snorts. “Well, then they should not ask questions they do not wish to know the answer to,” he says, arching an eyebrow. “If they get to talk about the flow of aether from a tree for five bells, then I can talk about punching people.”

Alisaie laughs, and he does as well, giggling and picking up his pen once more. “If you truly wish to ever shut me up,” he says, scrolling down his letter to see where he left off, “Ask me about arcanima. I have absolutely no idea how numbers function if there is more than one. Do not come at me with that sorcery.”

Alisaie grins. “Twenty-four. Sixty-three. Eighteen.”

Ikael clutches at his head. “You are killing me,” he says.

“The square root of zero,” Alisaie announces.

Ikael does not know what a ‘square root’ is. It does not sound very practical. “That is it! I am dead,” he declares, flopping his head down on the table like a ragdoll. Alisaie giggles overlong at this, and he grins.

“I shall leave you to your letter-writing, then,” Alisaie declares after a few minutes. “Perhaps I shall… write my own. For therapeutic reasons, if not practicality.”

Ikael nods, making an agreeing noise—he thinks that sounds like a good idea. He is nearly done with his letter.

 

 _And do not let Simeon eat your pie_ , he writes, _or he will get his commupence._

_Love,_

_Ikael :)_

~*~


	62. it wasn't very effective

Thancred is first aware that something is wrong because he can feel it in the air.

Or perhaps not in the air. That is a bit of ridiculous place to put one’s feelings, is it not? The ground, then—Thancred can feel it in the soil. In the shadows.

He stops walking, checks his knives. The feeling shifts, becomes more urgent, and Thancred has his daggers out in less than a moment. The blades flash as he brings them up, and it is a good thing he did, because in the next half-second there is a dark, violent form hurtling towards him.

His mystery attacker, however, seems to adapt to the sudden appearance of steel, because they do not delay their trajectory. Before Thancred knows what is happening, he is being slammed to the ground, a pair of strong legs locked around his neck.

A thigh shifts before Thancred has a chance to breath, and he is about to drive his smaller dagger up into his attacker’s side when—

“Thancred!” The voice that calls his name is cheerful, surprised, and obnoxiously familiar.

Thancred can breathe a moment later when the legs around his neck suddenly loosen, and then the heavy weight that has been bearing down on his body shifts, easing off of him.

“I didn’t recognize you!” says Ikael’s voice, but Thancred squints at the only somewhat familiar figure when a hand extends down towards him.

It _is_ Ikael, Thancred realizes, a few seconds of quick scanning and an (overly, obnoxiously energetic) hand up later. But he looks… Thancred squints. Is that an eye pat—no, wait. Is that _Thancred's_?

“My thanks for not bludgeoning me to death with your groin,” Thancred says, brushing dirt off his coat. “That would be a rather embarrassing way to go.”

Ikael grins. Thancred can see his _teeth_ , at least. “I hope it is the only way you will go!” Ikael exclaims. Thancred does not have a chance to figure out what in the hells _that_ means before Ikael is rambling on. “Oh, I am so sorry for attacking you! I thought you were a bandit! I can’t see very well with this thing—I think the tree was in my way.”

Thancred shoots a reproachful glance at the twisted trunk reaching up high near them. Its branches are spread out in such a matter that it _would_ make it difficult to see past, were one incompetent enough to position themselves in such a way as to hinder their line of sight.

Thancred looks at Ikael, who smiling happily at him and rocking a little on the balls of his feet. “That wasn’t terribly clever of you,” Thancred says. “There is a reason why _I_ am the one who does the ambushing, yes?”

“Are you hurt?” Ikael frowns in concern (at least, Thancred thinks he does) and reaches forward to touch gloved fingers to Thancred's chest, pressing along his sternum. “Oh! Good. Only your _pride_ is wounded, then. No matter; I can bake a pride pie.”

“I do not need one of your ridiculous overly-charitable sugary pacifiers,” Thancred sniffs.

“Those are a _lot_ of fancy words! Sharlayan education paying off, yeah?”

“Some of us are educated,” Thancred says, watching Ikael as he walks around and bends down to check the grass. “Which spurs me to tell you: if you are looking for tracks, you are doing it wrong. Whoever it is you are hunting did not stop to rub the sole of their boot against the grass for a full minute before resuming their path.”

Ikael straightens up. “I am… not doing that, silly!” he says, half a beat too late. “Ah… this thing is terrible for depth perception. How do you manage?”

“Artfully,” Thancred replies. “Although, while we are on the subject, might I ask—why in the name of sanity are you dressed like that? And did you tie your ears down? They look smaller, although that is not saying much.”

“I did!” Said ears wiggle back and forth. “And I wanted to see what it would be like to fight with impairments! So I impaired myself.” He spins around, kicking his legs up at Thancred, who notices what had felt so off about his form a minute ago.

“Block heels,” he realizes as Ikael does his strange, somewhat graceful pirouette. “Interesting. Life must be so _very_ boring for you at this point in time, then.”

“Rude.” Ikael sticks his tongue out playfully. “But yes—it feels different, yeah? Yugiri recommended I try training as the ninjas do for a while, to become lighter on my feet. It is working out quite nicely, I think. Although not helping my bandit-locating abilities.”

Thancred sighs. He has some time to spare, he thinks as he crouches down. And besides, Ikael _did_ promise him a pie.

“Lemon,” he reminds, and Ikael gives an excited little squeak before kneeling down next to him. “Alright—so what you want to watch for are any unnatural depressions in the spongy areas…”

~*~


	63. nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: general nightmare-flavoured stuff, rash violence, some blood, description of a facial injury as it is caused, and a short, temporary scene where a character gets killed. please mention if you want me to warn for anything else.  
> Please skip to the first ~*~ if you do not want to read that part.

Thancred is a restless sleeper, when he does manage to catch a moment of respite. It goes against everything—everything he was taught, everything they have _been_ through—to relax so completely, to be so utterly vulnerable in unconsciousness.

It also means he usually does not dream.

Tonight appears to be an exception. Thancred is staring down—down, _down_ —at the face of a friend. Green eyes that are much too trusting gaze up at him, somehow managing to seem both acres away and far, far too close. Thancred curls a hand underneath his chin, tipping it up.

“Thancred,” breathes Ikael, and Thancred _snarls_ , fury suddenly boiling up in him from the one word. He backhands Ikael across the face, and his head snaps to the side from the force of the blow.

When he slowly looks up again, there is blood trickling past his lips. Thancred grins, his lips stretching unnaturally wide, and wonders if he should do it again.

He reaches out to Ikael’s chin once more, knocking it up with his knuckles, but then seals his hand around his throat. He cocks his head.

“Thancred,” Ikael repeats, more of a wheeze than a word, and Thancred begins to tighten his fingers. It is worth it, he thinks, to feel Ikael try and gasp for air beneath his fingers, to see his chest twitch from breath it can barely hold.

But, alas. Thancred _has_ always had a flare for the dramatic, so he loosens his grip. “Any last words?” he inquires. The words drip like poison, casual as ever.

His fingertips begin to drag up Ikael’s face, mocking in their slowness. He slots a nail into the scar running down his cheek, and then sharply slices downward, re-opening the years-old wound. He wonders idly if he can make Ikael cry, if his tears will mingle with his blood.

“I know this is not you,” Ikael says softly, something kind and gentle in his eyes, and he is making Thancred _furious_ again—Thancred bares his teeth and _throttles_ him, squeezing around that scrawny little neck. He will crush the _life_ out of this infuriating little kitten.

Ikael’s eyes flutter rapidly, rolling up. A few more seconds and he will be dead; Thancred can feel it. Ikael opens his mouth—to cry for help? Beg for mercy? Thancred hopes it is the latter. Ikael rasps, breathes, whispers—

_“I forgive you.”_

—And Thancred _kills_ him, snaps his neck before he can even register the action. Ikael’s body collapses, and Thancred is left staring down at it, wondering what it was exactly that made him lose control.

~*~

Thancred awakens with a nasty jerk, bolting upright. He looks at his hands immediately—and they are normal, unclawed, only marked by familiar calluses and a thin, fading cut from a week ago. Thancred chokes out what could be a dry sob, dropping his head back against his bedframe.

He closes his eyes as he pants softly into the still air of his room, waiting for his heart to calm. It takes a few minutes, but eventually he can no longer hear its unsteady beating.

He opens his eyes. So tonight it was Ikael, then. Last time it was Lyse.

After a few fleeting moments of indecision, Thancred slides out of his bed. He pauses just as he is about to leave his room, and goes to his wardrobe, sifting through it before pulling out a long-sleeved sleep shirt and slipping it on. It is hot, but… well. Soft fabric is better than skin, as far as Thancred knows.

The stone floor of the hallway is cold to his bare feet. Thancred wonders for a moment what it would feel like had he another mind in his skull; whether the smoothness of the stone would bother him. Or perhaps it would be soothing in its carved flatness?

That train of thought is gentle enough for Thancred to gnaw on until he reaches Ikael’s room. He raises the back of his hand to the door and makes three sharp raps, so Ikael knows it is him. He wonders, as he waits for an answer, if he is asleep.

Ikael probably _is_ asleep, Thancred decides after barely giving the thought a moment’s consideration. This usually does not happen—Ikael is the one who traipses into people’s rooms for comfort, not him. Thancred has not even _considered_ the possibility that he might be sleeping—foolish, since it is the middle of the night. He has been too engrossed in his own clouded mind, trying futilely to scrub away the poison clinging to its walls. How damn inconsiderate of him. Ikael will never get upset at him for this, so Thancred must—

The door opens. Thancred blinks as he is greeted by Ikael’s hair, unkept and falling over most of his face.

“Thancred?” Ikael’s voice is sleep-soft and even scratchier than usual. Thancred feels the word like a knife in his heart, the scene in his dream echoing it in his mind’s eye. He watches as Ikael drags a sleeved hand up to his head, pushing his bangs out of the way.

“Come in,” Ikael mutters, stepping back to give Thancred room. Thancred closes the door behind him, looking back only when he hears the bedframe quietly creak.

Ikael is sitting cross-legged on his bed, fully clothed and covered. It is the only way he can truly sleep, he told Thancred once. He… is even wearing socks, although they do not seem to match. Thancred briefly wonders, out of a lack of any other thought he is willing to cling to, whether Ikael is colour-blind.

… That would explain a lot, actually.

“Thancred? Why are you staring at my foot?” Sock-clad toes wiggle at him. Thancred looks up sharply, and feels a fresh shard of memory carve through his chest at the way Ikael is looking at him.

He shakes his head, walking forward. He drops onto the bed on his knees. Ikael makes a concerned noise, opening his arms, and Thancred barely registers the worry creasing his brow before he accepts the embrace, slumping against Ikael in exhaustion.

“ _Ohh_ , no,” Ikael murmurs, but he says it soothingly. The hands that are gently stroking down Thancred's back are anything but harried and anxious. Thancred is barely aware of the touch, so badly is he shaking right now, but he can feel it slowly leeching away the corruption in his mind, leaving him vulnerable and intact.

“It is alright, sweetheart,” Ikael says. “I… do not know what you need to hear right now, but know that you are safe and very loved. Just… let it out, yeah? I promise you will feel better.”

Thancred _is_ letting it out, although the moment Ikael says _sweetheart_ , any will he might have held to block out his heart crumbles. Ikael is a solid weight supporting him in all ways, surprisingly steady in the role of comforter as he murmurs to Thancred and holds him securely. It is after Thancred's breathing evens out against Ikael’s neck that Thancred draws back an ilm, closing his eyes and taking a steadying breath before resting his temple against Ikael’s collarbone.

“Are you alright?” Ikael asks softly. “Do you want to speak, or just lie down?”

Thancred presses first his right, then his left eye into Ikael’s shoulder to dry them. He sighs. “Just lie down, I think,” he mutters, wondering how to ask Ikael to do what he wishes him to do.

He feels Ikael nod, and then they are arranging themselves to lie on the bed. Ikael gives Thancred a pillow from his pile. Thancred watches him as he pulls up the blankets, tucking them both in.

Thancred makes a low noise at Ikael to get his attention. He ducks his head a little, feeling perhaps a _bit_ embarrassed to ask, even if he knows Ikael will not mock him. It turns out he needn’t have worried, however, as Ikael immediately shuffles closer to him, bringing up an arm to gently pull Thancred's head to his chest and moving a hand to stroke slowly through his hair.

“… Thank you,” Thancred mumbles after a moment, for a brief instant stumbling sharply into obligatory reciprocation. But Ikael shushes him firmly, and the feeling vanishes. Thancred just barely smiles—and his heart relaxes at the small movement, the tension leeching out of him at the realization that he is… him. That Ikael is fine.

That Thancred will, in fact, be all right.

~*~


	64. tea

Y'shtola does not know when Ikael had started to use endearments. It seems, nowadays, that he cannot go a day without a _darling_ , or _dear,_ or even _sweetheart_ , if he is feeling particularly saccharine. Never… _love_ , though. And is it less common to hear him use such words in place of names? Or is that balance shifting as well?

She would gossip to Thancred about it, but he is not here.

“You do not take your tea without sugar,” Ikael says. It is more of a statement than anything, a sure and confident conviction that Y'shtola has never once in her life sipped a cup of tea without at least a spoonful of sugar in it. Ikael is watchful of people’s tastes, she knows, although she cannot decide whether that is because he cares, or because his desire to please others borders on desperation.  

Perhaps both. Y'shtola takes a sip of her coffee, and only just resists making a face. As it is, her nose twitches, and her ears flatten for half a second. She can tell Ikael notices, because he draws in a soft, worried breath and quietly pokes a sugar cube towards her.

“You are correct,” she tells him. “’Tis coffee, in fact. I have decided to try it for some regrettable reason; it is a heinous thing without any milk or sweetening. Far too bitter for my tastes.”

“Do you want me to get you milk?” Ikael shifts in his seat. The worriedness in his movements seeps into his voice as well. “I can ask for some when they come by to take my order. Or… now, if you want.”

For a moment, Y'shtola briefly entertains the idea of Ikael barging into the kitchens to anxiously demand she be brought milk. The thought makes the corner of her mouth twitch, and she shakes her head.

“I shall wait,” she says as her fingers slip the sugar cube into her cup.

Ikael nods, relaxing somewhat. He starts to glance around. Y'shtola’s earlier musings come to mind once more—he had called the place _lovely_ when he had arrived, ten minutes late. _Lovely_ , and _Oh, I’m so sorry I’m late! You’re such a dear for waiting for me._

Is she? Again a question of whether Ikael is being genuine, or whether he is forcing himself to be genial in an attempt to stay any potential wrath directed his way. Perhaps, once again, it is both.

“Shtola,” Ikael says softly, and she glances up. “Are you okay? You seem lost in thought.”

She smiles, the novelty of him calling her by her familiar name easing the expression into something softer than it usually is. Another recent development, and a good one, she thinks.

“I am merely contemplating the nuances of our circumstance, Ikael,” she says. “You have not been here before, I take it? A pity; I was going to ask for a recommendation.”

Ikael laughs softly. “You cannot simply ask me for a ‘recommendation’ every time we go out to eat,” he chides pleasantly. “And not in front of the waiter, please! Oh, that was embarrassing… poor thing…”

“I simply wanted your honest opinion on the dishes,” Y'shtola returns, although she smirks faintly at the memory. “Not to mention, it is quite a sport to watch your inner culinarian’s taste battle your manners.”

Ikael tuts in feigned shock. “Bad Shtola,” he scolds, and grins. “I cannot believe you.”

The waitress comes over, having noticed Ikael by now. He smiles at her, all charm, and requests the cinnamon bun and honeyed tea, thank you very much. Y'shtola asks her for a rolanberry sweet tart, because she knows they have those, and a dollop of cream in her coffee.

The waitress leaves with their orders and Y'shtola’s coffee, and now they are sitting in peaceful silence. Y'shtola is no avid pursuer of small talk, and in his most honest state, Ikael does not speak overmuch. If he has nothing to fret about, that is.

Still. Y'shtola breaks the silence with a curious question, because it has been tickling the back of her mind since Ikael proposed this get-together.

“I am curious,” she begins, and Ikael turns his head to look at her, “Of why I was the one you chose to invite to this outing. Surely you could have convinced Thancred to delay a moment to have tea with you?”

Ikael breathes out what could be a chuckle, were it more than a breath. “I do not mistake the urgency of my desire for companionship to be the same as any mission of ours,” he says. “Besides, you are curious about our latest terror, are you not? I thought I might as well be exhausted as a source of knowledge.”

 Y'shtola wonders if Ikael even notices the memory of bitterness in his words, since his tone is genial enough. Most probably not; it is one thing for the mind to understand the truth of one’s situation, and quite another for the heart to forget. Ikael, for all that his mind has hardened over the years to the reality of their circumstances, lives in his heart.

“I think I am glad to speak with you of mundane things,” Y'shtola replies, because she has not become “Shtola” from addressing his mind.

Ikael seems surprised, bless him. He, even, has not yet figured how he works. Perhaps that is for the best, Y'shtola thinks as he flushes lightly. It would not do for him to stress overmuch about even more things that are barely in his control.

“So,” she says once they have their food, “I will admit I was always curious; just how did you decide on becoming a culinarian?”

And Ikael, for some reason, laughs.

~*~


	65. cushions

 

“Hello, Hien!” Ikael calls as he politely barges in without any warning. “I’ve brought you a few things!”

Hien looks up with a startled expression—one that Ikael does not see for very long when one of his cushion stacks starts to slide to the side. He manages to catch it, and begins to set everything down.

“Well, one thing,” he elaborates as Hien gets up in a bit of a rush and starts to help him unload. “Oh—thank you, lovely—I suppose it is multiples of one thing, isn’t it? Does that count as more than one thing?”

“Whatever did you—where did you get all of these from?” Hien is not answering Ikael’s question, which is alright, he supposes. He will ask him again later.

“Oh, I bought them!” Ikael replies cheerily. He debates for a moment whether or not to give in to the urge to simply dump the cushions on the ground and launch himself onto them. His tail twitches at the thought.

“Speaking of which… may I stay here for a couple of days? I… aha… I need to do a few odd jobs, I think.”

He is bad at avoiding the aetheryte fee keepers, and he feels terrible for ever trying, even when he inevitably gets caught and scolded. But he needs to _get around_ , somehow… even if his coin sometimes dips down to the double digits. To make up for this transgression, he tries to overpay when he can. Is that good enough? Is Ikael a bad person? Oh…

“Certainly,” Hien says with a short bow. Ikael throws the remainder of his cushions upwards and cheers. One falls ilms from Hien’s head. He looks amused, however, so Ikael is sure it is fine.

“So! You… brought… cushions,” says Hien, in a manner that implies he is trying to be charismatic and leaderlike about it but does not know how.

“Yep!” Ikael chirps, toddling forward to start fluffing them out and arrange them properly.

“Ah…” Hien sounds at a loss for words. Ikael picks up a cushion that has fallen at his feet and sets it neatly next to another. Yellow and blue are complementary colours, right? Ikael does not remember.

“… Why?”

“Oh! I thought you could use some nicer ones,” Ikael replies. “I didn’t want to get nasty Eorzean cushions—don’t worry. I found these in Kugane. Their markets have nice things, you know? If a bit pricey…”

Ikael likes the Hingan cushions very much. He is considering buying a whole cartload of them (when he can afford to do so once more) and replacing all of the ones at the Rising Stones.

“Pricey,” Hien repeats. He bends down to feel the fringes of a cushion between his fingertips. A small frown starts to grow on his face. “Ikael—these are of quite high stock. They must have cost you a fortune!”

He does not sound upset, exactly, but his voice is somewhat rough. Ikael swallows down the irrational spark of anxiety in his throat. Surely Hien will not get angry with him? He is… too kind for that, right?

Ikael nods. “They did,” he says, pressing his fingers to his face. “But the ones you have here… well. They’re a bit bristly, yeah? But if you do not… if you do not want these, you do not have to accept them. I just thought it would make things a lot more… comfortable. And I paid for them out of pocket, so no worries about any ill-spent money that could have gone to more righteous causes. I would have wasted it all on a sweater or something, haha!”

He is blathering on now; a nervous tick of his. He very much hopes Hien is not upset with him. They have only just begun to become friends, and Ikael hates to think that he has ruined that already.

“Be that as it may,” Hien says in a serious tone, “I am in debt to you. You did not have to—”

He breaks off, tilting his head ever so slightly to stare at Ikael with an undecipherable expression. Oh no; this was a terrible, stupid idea. Ikael’s ears dip as he sits on one of the cushions, stroking his tail and preparing to be lectured at. He knew he should have gotten something more practical—food, maybe, or clothing. But _cushions_? What kind of fool is he?

Ikael is about to mumble out a weak apology when Hien smiles suddenly, warm and friendly. A small, weak part of Ikael’s heart lifts in hope. Does Hien like the cushions after all?

“I must thank you very much,” Hien bows deeply, and Ikael lets go of his tail, surprise loosening his grip. “It is not a conventional gift, but it is very characteristic of you, and I will treasure that reminder every time I see them. You are very thoughtful, Ikael. Thank you.”

 _Oh_ , that is— “ _Oh_ ,” says Ikael, pressing his hands to his face once more, this time in embarrassment. He can feel the warmth of his cheeks at his fingertips. “That—I-I-I—you’re welcome. I-I’m glad you like them! I specifically picked ones that I thought would go with the décor, yeah?”

“As… I can see!” Hien says after a short, odd pause. He smiles again, however, so Ikael dismisses it and smiles back.

“Come, help me arrange them,” Hien says, and Ikael happily jumps to his feet, tail wriggling. This was a _good_ waste of money, he thinks. Maybe he can buy blankets next.

~*~


	66. competition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realize i never posted this chapter

“No, the—entire thing. Fit the entire thing in your mouth.”

“Hm?” Thancred lowers the banana to look at him. Ikael sucks his lips in between his teeth, considering the bowl filled with their options. His tail swishes softly against the floor as he thinks, beginning to gather just a little bit of dust.

He finally reaches for one of the sausages they have picked out, handing it to Thancred. Thancred hums, considering it, and slips it past his lips.

“… Huh,” Ikael says after Thancred has successfully fit the entire thing inside his mouth before smoothly pulling it out. “How about… the popsicle? It’s more rigid.”

“And _cold_ ,” says Thancred. “No thank you. I do not wish to _completely_ wreck my throat.”

Ikael blows a rolanberry at him teasingly, a _“pbbbbbth”_ noise that makes Thancred roll his eyes and shove him a little.

“You try the sausage now,” he says. “Come on—‘tis the _easiest_ one.”

Ikael makes a face. “Ew, no! You just put that in your mouth.”

“Dear gods,” Thancred mutters. “Your inhibitions are odd, and also awful.”

“I’m not touching that! How about this— _I’ll_ do the popsicle, since you’re being such a coward.”

“Go ahead.” Thancred spreads his hands. “Do try not to choke.”

Ikael squints at him. “I _never_ choke,” he declares grandly, reaching for the frozen treat. He decides to keep the wrapper on, since he does not want any to break off while he is shoving it down his throat.

He tilts his head up, readies himself… then pauses to look at Thancred.

“No sexualizing me,” he says.

“ _Twelve_ forbid,” says Thancred. Ikael takes that as reassurance.

He has just about begun when a familiar and far-too-young-and-uncorrupted-to-be-watching-this voice interrupts.

“What,” she says, “in the _hells_ are you two doing?”

Ikael takes the popsicle out of his mouth and joins his stare with Thancred's. Alisaie Leveilleur is standing there, arms crossed, looking a mix between horrified and intrigued.

“What? What are you—what are you doing up?” Ikael stutters. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“We were having a comparison of talents, if you must know,” Thancred explains, because he is a horrible person. “There is a rather winningly handsome lad who seems to be the Seventh Heaven’s new regular, and _Ikael_ said that he—”

“Enough!” Alisaie looks like she regretted asking in the first place. “Please do not finish that sentence. _Ever_. You two are _disgusting!”_

She spins to Ikael, who winces and winds his tail defensively around the leg of his stool. “I-I—”

Alisaie’s face is quite red by now, which, judging by Thancred's amused smirk, he finds quite entertaining. She huffs, and says, “I… discover something new about you every day, it seems. Frankly, it should not surprise me that you are less…” She winces. “… conformingly uncrude in some areas, especially around certain company, but I still find myself… well, surprised.”

“I must admit, this did devolve into a crude, phallus-oriented competition that is not really related to our good man Roland anymore,” Thancred states, “But just in case, I have prepared some fruit for us. Hm?”

He smiles at Ikael, who stares back at him, aghast.

“No,” he says. The “phallus-oriented” nature of the competition had been _just_ a degree of separation away from being too much. Because he. Does _not_. Need to think. About _Thancred_. Like that.

Thancred tilts his head. “Come now, Ikael. It is hardly fair to assume—”

“Nope!” Ikael starts to shake his head. “That’s not why. Nope! You can violate your fruits away from me, please. I can do it on my own time. Not with you. Stick to,” He tosses the sausage on table. It plops a few ilms away, and then rolls to Thancred. “… Sausages.”

Thancred quirks an eyebrow. Ikael hopes very very desperately that he does not catch on to Ikael’s train of thought. Thancred says, “Can’t handle it?”

He is smirking. Bastard.

Handsome bastard. Ikael hates him.

“I… am getting extremely uncomfortable with the atmosphere in this room,” Alisaie announces. “I am going to sleep. Good night, you two. Never mention this to me ever again.”

And with a swirl of her coat, she walks away. Ikael waves.

When he looks back to Thancred, he is considering the options in the bowl again. “No fruits,” he agrees. “Although it is tempting, just to frustrate you. However, I do not wish to become a source of _that_ kind of frustration. Again.” He winks, then winces a little.

“Agreed!” Ikael says shrilly. “Let’s stop talking about it! Please! Now try to fit this popsicle in your mouth.”

Thancred frowns at him. “’Twas your turn! Cheater.”

Ikael crosses his arms. “I did it while you were not looking,” he lies. The popsicle… really _is_ cold. Ikael—shh—probably cannot manage it. “Now if you _can’t_ do it… hm…”

Thancred harrumphs, and takes the popsicle with grand, overdramatic suspicion. Ikael grins at him.

“The whole thing,” he clarifies unnecessarily.

~*~


	67. cacozealous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> of being a bad imitation.

It is… early. Thancred does not think he can bring himself to leave his room today. He barely thinks he can leave his bed.

He will fake illness if he must, he decides. Hopefully, he will not be needed. It is only for a day, after all, and with the way the Scions are going out and about nowadays, it is unlikely that anyone will even notice his absence.

It is about mid-morning when he gets a call on his linkpearl.

 _“You haven’t had breakfast yet,”_ declares a self-righteous voice. _“Are you coming down, or shall I have to go up?”_

Ah, right. Ikael.

“I ate,” Thancred mutters, staring at his ceiling.

 _“You most certainly did not,”_ Ikael returns indignantly. _“I am always the first one up—do not think I do not keep track of these things, Thancred! Now make your choice.”_

Thancred eyes a crack running along a wooden beam and bemoans the fact that he has such a rude and demanding friend. “I will make my own breakfast, Ikael,” he says finally. “Pray do not wait up for me.”

 _“Hmm,”_ Ikael says cryptically, and the connection cuts off.

Thancred really should not be as surprised as he is when, ten minutes later, he hears his door open. The smell of bacon immediately permeates the room, invading seemingly Thancred's entire consciousness, and it is because of the resulting hungry pang of his stomach that he looks up.

Ikael sniffs, making a face as he nudges the door shut with his toe. “It is disgusting in here,” he proclaims, setting his—large, very full—tray down and moving to open the windows. “Gods, Thancred—you can’t live like this! Do I have to move into your room until you can sort yourself out?”

Thancred grunts at him, too distracted by the food to channel much energy into giving an answer. There is indeed bacon, as well as eggs and toast and a small stack of _divine_ -looking pancakes, next to a cup of syrup. Thancred tugs himself upwards, curiosity lending him a dredge of energy as his blankets fall around his waist. Craning his neck, he can see the edge of what looks like—strawberries? Ikael has gotten strawberries? With _cream_? By the Twelve…

“You didn’t eat much last night,” Ikael says, opening the curtains in one dramatic gesture. Thancred blinks dazedly at the sudden flood of gentle light. “So I thought I’d bring you a lot of food! You do not have to finish it if you do not wish to, of course. In fact, I fancy I might steal a strawberry.”

“I, ah…” Thancred has to clear his throat. “… Thank you, Ikael. You did not need to do this simply on account of my… laziness. You are being very kind.”

He remembers at the last moment that he is supposed to be charming, and competent, and self-aggrandizing. He offers Ikael what he hopes is a suitably winsome smile, with just a hint of wryness. Enough to suggest that he could have done all of this himself he if had so chosen, perhaps.

Ikael frowns at him, gesturing for him to sit up before placing the tray on his lap. “I hardly think I deserve thanks for taking care of my very dear and lovely friend,” he says softly, pressing a hand to Thancred's cheek. “I am here for you when you need me, yeah? Now eat up!”

He smiles, giving Thancred a little tap before beginning to make the bed around him. Thancred stares, caught off-guard. For a moment he wrestles with the choice of whether or not to continue his congenial charade, but by the looks of it, Ikael has barely noticed it, let alone fallen for it. In the end Thancred shrugs, and greedily forks a slice of bacon.

The food is _heavenly_. Thancred owns the Culinarian’s Guild a personal letter of gratitude. Perhaps it tastes better because it feels as if Thancred has not eaten in moons, or perhaps Ikael missed a truly glorious and highly successful career as a five-star breakfast chef. Either way, Thancred is very glad for his stroke of kindness.

“Now go bathe so I can make the bed properly,” Ikael says as soon as Thancred finishes, and then Thancred is being ungracefully dragged off his own bed. He yelps and clutches the tray, trying to keep anything from breaking.

“You’re a bloody slave driver,” he grumbles, but trudges towards the bathing room. He knows, at least, that he _does_ smell a little, even if Ikael is too kind to mention it.

“You reek,” Ikael calls after him.

~*~

Completely predictably, a fresh change of clothes is waiting for Thancred at the door, lying on top of which is even a clean, dark red bandana. He chuckles to himself and gets dressed. When he returns to his room once more, Ikael is there, along with about half a dozen extra pillows.

“I thought we’d nap!” he exclaims as soon as Thancred enters. His tail excitedly whips against a pillow. “I haven’t napped in almost a day!”

“Twelve forbid,” Thancred quips, raising an eyebrow. “Really, it is a mir—”

“—acle I get anything done,” Ikael echoes in time with him. Thancred squints.

“I must thank you for this,” he says, deciding to change the subject and tapping at his covered eye. “Black does get a little depressing, even if it _does_ make a statement.”

“You’re welcome! I will be taking it back in the evening,” Ikael says with a grand smile. Thancred pauses halfway to the bed.

“Oh! Ah… of course,” he says, somewhat gracefully. “Thank you very much for letting me—”

“I’m kidding! I’m joking. It’s yours now. Haha!” Ikael laughs, throwing up his arms. Thancred sighs, giving his head a small shake, but cannot help a smile.

Ikael furiously motions him over, so Thancred concedes and lies back down on his bed with only a small eye roll. He waits patiently as Ikael gets far more comfortable than is probably socially acceptable, and then it is only a matter of time before he finds himself hazily drifting off to sleep.

~*~

Thancred awakes to the feeling of something moving through his hair. He cracks open his eye to see bare skin, ilms away. The next thing he registers in his confusion is a low, murmuring noise, and he has to focus for a few seconds before he can identify what it is.

"You're so precious," Ikael is saying very, very quietly, petting his head. "You're so precious. Yes."   
  
Normally Thancred would at least snigger, but the words are for some reason summoning a strange tightness in his throat. So he does not, and instead closes his eyes once more, not wanting to disturb Ikael’s gentle activity.

Thancred does not know whether it is some odd urge or simply natural behaviour which has drawn Ikael to help him, but he does know that he is grateful. Mayhaps he will even try his hand at baking a thank-you cake. When he can.

~*~


	68. halatinous

Limsa Lominsa is… an interesting place. I’jela had taken the time to look around when they had first arrived, and she will admit that, despite the lingering scent of fish and sea salt in the air, the liveliness of the city has a certain… charm to it. Still, she thinks she prefers the desert. There are too many people here for her to feel comfortable—she is not used to crowds. On top of which, it is _loud—_ she feels out of place amongst the bellowing, cheery voices of the fish vendors and the general cacophonous hubbub all around them.

“An’ did you see the _biiiig_ fish? It was… _this_ big! Oh, I am going to tell Kava all about it when we get back! He’s gonna be _so_ impressed. Do you think we can buy a fish to show him? Mamae? Do you think we can buy a fish?”

Kael, on the other hand, is quite excited.

“Watch your hands, kitten,” I’jela says, idly moving his left arm—which is still outstretched—closer to him before it collides with a barrel. “And we can certainly buy a fish, but I am afraid it will go off long before we get back home.”

“Aww.” Kael affects a pout, dropping his arms. “We can’t make it last longer? How about a big one? A _really_ big one?”

I’jela gently takes his hand before he can emote once more, since he looks like he is about to. “A fish’s size, however impressive, does not affect its lifespan,” she tells him. “And I am not versed in any preservation magic, unfortunately. But we may buy something else, if you wish.”

She smiles at him, and he squeaks and jumps a little before beaming back. He begins to look around eagerly for whatever temporary satisfaction he can find, and I’jela patiently waits for him to settle on the thing that piques his interest the most, letting him gently tug her this way and that.

When he stops, of course, it is next to a giant fish. Granted, he is pointing at the frying shop _beside_ it, but I’jela still has to keep herself from making a face at the smell.

“Food?” she questions in response to his eager expression. He nods enthusiastically and squeezes her fingers; a signal that he would like to rush off but is suppressing the urge for her sake. Or perhaps simply because he does not wish to let go of her hand. Either is equally likely.

“Okay,” she grants, and begins to head towards the vendor. Kael swings their hands happily. “But we would have eaten anyways; I will allow something else on account of that.”

“I’m hungry!” Kael pipes up cheerfully, his immediate concern apparently being his only one.

I’jela sighs. “Alright,” she says. “What would you like? Do you want me to order for you?”

Kael is already speaking to the vendor, apparently too excited for her questions to register. The small stub of his tail is wagging rapidly. “Hi mister!” he says. “Wow, I really like your fish! Are those your fish? They’re really big! How did you get them?”

The roegadyn manning the shop laughs. “These’uns next to me? Not mine! Ask Aermwyb o’er there if yer curious, littlun! She don’t bite, I promise.”

Kael ventures a quick glance at the owner of the fish stall, and his ears dip down shyly. Suddenly wrapping his arms around himself, he begins to look around—and I’jela smoothly steps in beside him before he can panic, laying a hand on his head.

“We just might, afterwards,” she offers the vendor with a smile as Kael wraps his arms around her and hides his face. “May we have… ah, the fish and chips look good, I think. Thank you kindly.”

“Mamae,” Kael mumbles into her hip. She pets his head consolingly. They have to wait for the food, at least, and he will not want to go find a seat without her.

The roegadyn starts to make their food, and I’jela murmurs encouragingly to Kael to watch what he is doing. He ends up peeking curiously at what is happening, one ear half-cocked. When the food is done he fists a hand in her skirt and mostly extracts himself, letting her move about freely.

They move, at Kael’s insistence, over to the farthest table from the stall—one that sits alone overlooking a lovely view of the ocean. I’jela sets the food down as Kael scoots the two chairs closer together.

They sit. Kael looks at the food for nearly a minute, then slowly up at I’jela.

“The giant man was scaring me,” he mumbles.

I’jela takes a chip. “Yeah?” she questions, dipping it in the small cup of sauce provided.

Kael’s gaze drops down again. “Yeah,” he mumbles. He reaches forward to take a chip as well, and—to her mild amusement—imitates her actions exactly. He bites when she does, and chews for barely a second before scrunching up his face.

“It’s so salty!” he squeaks.

I’jela chuckles. “Try eating them without the dip,” she suggests. “Or take a fish stick. Here.” She nudges them towards him.

Kael does both, and chews very thoroughly, making sure to close his mouth—good—before swallowing. They eat for a few minutes in silence. Kael’s ears gradually perk back up, and five minutes later, he is energetically swinging his legs in the chair.

Finally, he pauses, and seems to think.

“I… didn’t like when he asked me to talk to the giant lady,” he offers almost hesitantly. I’jela leans forwards encouragingly.

“You did not?” she prompts. Inwardly, she is amused at “giant lady,”—she will have to correct that later, but now is hardly the time.

“No.” Kael shakes his head back and forth four times. “She didn’t have food and she wasn’t… nice ears and… she’s really big and I didn’t like her feeling.”

“Hm.” I’jela attempts to process that. “Well, I am sure she might be a nice person if you give her a chance, kitten. You never know.”

“Yeah?” he says through a mouthful of food. A few fried crumbs spill out and fall on the table.

“Chew first,” I’jela says, and then, “Yeah.”

“Oh! Sorry, Mamae.”

“It’s alright.”

Kael starts to kick his legs once more, and finishes his fish stick. Then he nudges what is left towards her.

“I’m full, Mamae,” he says, followed immediately by, “Can I have ice cream?”

I’jela raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you full?”

“Yes but I’ve never had ice cream and Kava says he has and I want to have it too because that’s not fair and I saw ice cream earlier and it smelled nice and I’ll even go and ask for it myself please Mamae?”

I’jela eyes how much of the food he has not eaten (most of it), considers how much of a scoop of ice cream he will also most likely not eat (most of it), and shrugs internally. That will be her supper, she supposes.

“Just this once, because we are visiting,” she tells Kael, and he throws his arms up and cheers.

“Thank you Mamae I love you lots,” he says, and she laughs.

“I love you too, kitten,” she says, fishing in her pack for a handkerchief. “Now wipe your mouth, yeah? And we’ll go have a look at that ice cream.”

~*~


	69. tornado

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha 69

“Ellie,” Thancred repeats without inflection.

The coeurl kitten fidgets in Ikael’s arms, pushing at him with its paws and looking for all the world like it is trying to escape. If Thancred were any less smart, he would have almost thought it is responding to its “name.”

“Yes! Well, um.” Ikael is struggling mightily to hold the thing steady. He winces when sharp claws dig into his arm. “She seems… attached to me. I thought it’d be okay if I, uh…”

“Brought a wild animal to the Waking Sands?” Thancred loosely gestures to the area around them. “By all means; it seems we are half in the habit of recruiting them already.”

Ikael blushes at that, for whatever reason—he blushes at a lot of things Thancred says, so he does not pay it much mind—and shifts the kitten’s position so that he is more or less cradling it like an infant.

Its back paw kicks the air, dangerous ilms away from Ikael’s throat. “Mrrrehh,” it says.

“ _Aww_ ,” Ikael replies inanely, and coos at it. Thancred watches in near disbelief as it arches its head up, and then rubs against what it had nearly dismembered.

“Anyways, um.” Ikael’s gaze flicks back up to join Thancred's as he rubs his cheek back against the kitten. “I… hope it’s not too much of an issue? I-I-I’ll take care of her and all, I promise. I’ve been doing it so far, anyways. She just needs someone to look after her… She’s so vulnerable on her own, poor thing.”

He pauses to coo at the thing again, and it makes a growling, mewling-like noise back before closing its eyes and wriggling. Ikael waits until it stills, then starts to pet its chest with a smile. He glances back up at Thancred once more.

“If it _is_ an issue, I will leave and see to her elsewhere,” he says. “This is a… this is a lovely place and all, Thancred, but I cannot simply abandon her.”

Thancred raises both his hands and his eyebrows. “Alright, alright,” he says. “No need to throw down ultimatums. I suppose if Minfilia allows it, you may house a wildcat in our headquarters. It is on you to housetrain it, however.”

“Uh.” Ikael winces. “She’s not—she’s not, uh…”

“I am sure we have nothing to fear in your capable hands, my good fellow,” Thancred says, clapping him on the shoulder as he begins to walk past. He pauses to eye the coeurl, who is staring at him with a slow, unblinking gaze that is _almost_ endearing. “Welcome to the Scions, Ellie.”

“Oh gods,” Ikael mumbles faintly, no doubt beginning to have regrets. “Oh-- _Tataru_ …”

“Crystal guide you,” Thancred farewells cheerfully, and leaves Ikael to dwell on the scope of his decisions.

~*~


	70. boys

“Mamae,” Kael starts pointedly, “What do you think about… girls?”

I’jela lolls her head to the side in one slow, tired gesture, squinting as sunlight hits her eyes. Kael’s face is less than two ilms away from hers.

“Girls?” I’jela frowns a little. “They are there. I am one.”

“You are not a girl; you are Mamae,” Kael says.

That surprises a laugh out of her. Kael grins back toothily, most likely pleased that he has caused it. I’jela stretches, then groans as she sits up. Kael does the same, although he only stretches.

“Girls are not for everyone,” she says. “I myself think they are quite lovely. I also think some boys can be quite lovely.”

Kael looks up from where he has begun to pick at the grass, and scrunches up his face. “Which ones?” he asks with an air of mild disgust.

I’jela chuckles lightly. “Not the nuhn,” she says. She presses her forefinger against the ball of his nose. “Some less boring men you know nothing about. Ranan, once.”

“Ranan once what?” Kael asks.

I’jela blinks at him calmly. “We once… how do you put it? Liked each other.”

Kael looks mildly horrified at this, so she laughs once more, and flicks his nose. “Nothing to concern yourself about, kitten,” she says.

Kael blows a rolanberry at her, then snatches up a small fistful of grass and throws it in her general direction.

“Whee,” he says.

“Now, now.” I’jela brushes herself off. “No need to be immature. So why are you asking about girls?”

“ _Wellll_ ,” Kael drawls, hugging his knees, “Kava was asking me if I liked girls.”

“And?” I’jela picks out some of the blades of grass that had fallen in her hair.

Kael gives a big shrug. “I think… girls are pretty,” he says slowly.

“They are,” I’jela agrees.

Kael’s soft face creases into a frown. “But… that is all,” he says. “And… you are pretty too, Mamae!” He beams at her.

I’jela smiles quietly and begins to gently run her fingers through Kael’s hair, untangling some of the knots he has caused. “So are you, sweetheart,” she says.

Kael says nothing for a moment. “I… don’t like that Kava is asking stupid questions,” he says eventually.

“Kael.” I’jela frowns a little. She picks a small twig out of his hair. “Do not say that. It is not nice. Kava might… have been asking you something else, but simply did not know how to phrase it subtly.”

“Phrase it what?” Kael asks.

I’jela tilts her head. “How to… ask you something without making it obvious he was asking it,” she clarifies.

“That is—” Kael stops himself. “Sorry, Mamae. That’s mean. But… why does he not simply… _ask_ me?”

I’jela pauses to consider. She remembers, quite clearly, the day a hyuran merchant caravan had crossed paths with the tribe, and how Kael had very clearly ogled at one of the merchant’s teenage sons. Not someone I’jela would have approved of, of course, had it been serious—age difference aside. But it had been but a passing fancy, and Kael’s bright red face had been… at least a little bit amusing.

“Some people cannot see what is most obvious when it has been in front of them their whole lives,” she says. “Or they simply do not like the answer they know is true, so they search for another one that they will never find.”

Kael seems to be trying to take this in. “So…” he says slowly, “Kava _knows_ I don’t like girls, but he wants me to.”

That makes I’jela drop her hands. “Ah…” she says. “Not… exactly what I meant. Oh; it matters not. Give it some thought and time, Kael, and the matter will eventually resolve.”

Kael cranes his neck around to give her a pleading look, and does not stop until she dutifully places her hand on his head again and starts carding through his hair.

“Thank you Mamae you are very wise and I love you,” Kael says happily.

I’jela sighs inwardly. “I love you too, kitten,” she says, somewhat defeatedly. Ah well. Hopefully this issue will stay small, and _will_ resolve itself in due time. At the very least, she is sure it will not blow up out of proportion and be Kael’s first big mistake in another, oh, five years or so.

Now _that_ would be ridiculous.

~*~


	71. all saints' wake

“What in the hells is wrong with your face?” is the first thing Thancred says to him after he has spent the entire day painstakingly toiling away in his room.

“I’m a vampire,” Ikael says, convincingly.

Thancred gives him an incredulous look. His eyes dart from Ikael’s face down his body and back up, taking in his outfit. Ikael tries to appear charming yet menacing—sexy in a dangerous way.

“You look like you stuck your face in a sack of flour and sneezed,” says Thancred.

Ikael opens his mouth, offended. The movement draws Thancred's gaze again, and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Are those false teeth?” He steps forward, leaning to examine Ikael’s mouth more closely. Ikael obligingly keeps it open, even when he starts drooling a little.

This is not _fair._ Why couldn’t Thancred have looked him over this attentively a year ago, when it would have _meant_ something to Ikael? Now those boyish good looks are ilms away from his face, and instead of thinking about them getting closer, Ikael is wondering how long his powder will last, and if it is saliva-proof.

“I find it somewhat amazing that you have to buy some cheap children’s accessory to badly attach to your mouth just because you were born on the sunnier side of things,” Thancred says, idly wiping at the side of Ikael’s mouth with his sleeve. Ikael winces when it comes away with a somewhat disgusting powdery imprint.

“Well, what are _you_ doing, hm?” Ikael settles his hands on his black leather-clad hips. He hopes his lisp is not _too_ apparent. “You do not look any different. No more terrifying or monshtrous than that shirt usually ish.”

That grants him a glimpse of a smile, even as something flickers behind Thancred's warm brown eyes. “I… do not find myself drawn to the paranatural and the macabre, as such,” he says. “Not… not anymore.”

A dark, sharply clear image of Thancred clad in black robes and a wicked smile flashes in Ikael’s mind. He finds himself nodding before he even replies. “Of course,” he says softly. “Understandable. Well…”

He steps back to grandly indicate the area that leads to the kitchen, and only wobbles _slightly_ in his heels.

“I will be icing cookies to dishtribute,” he says. “Around the Waking Shands first, and then to Ul’dah. Do you want to come with?”

Thancred tilts his head, as if considering. Ikael takes the opportunity to readjust his teeth.

Thancred tips his chin up. “I will, I think,” he says. “Well, on one condition.”

“Yesh?”

Thancred's lips press together briefly in what might be a suppressed smile. “Wash your face and see Tataru about your makeup,” he says.

Ikael makes an offended noise, opening his mouth again. The teeth fall out.

“Oh—!” Ikael squats down as best he can—with these _damned_ heels—to pick them up. Thancred is already laughing at him, because he is an arse. “Oh, alright. Fine. At least dress up as a pirate or something while I get that done, yeah?

Thancred winks at him after helping him up. “A sexy pirate,” he says. “Yes, I think I can do that.”

He starts to walk away. “So that we match?” Ikael calls after him.

Thancred does not answer that.

~*~


	72. stolen

He puts on his most _winning_ smile. He’s learned what that means—winning. It means he can win something, if he brightens his eyes and his face enough.

The vendor of the sweet cart Thancred has had his eye on for a week does not seem to be taken by the show of Thancred's mostly pearly whites. She casts a suspicious eye down at him—a long way down, considering she is a roegadyn and he is barely four fulms high—and plants her feet.

“Scram.” One word, a cocked eyebrow, and a disdainful glance at Thancred's hands.

He smiles wider, and uses those hands to press his hair back. He’s cleaned his face for this, too, to look right proper; spit in his hands and rubbed ’em, and he’s all pink and peachy.

“Really, ’m!” He pushes himself up on his toes. “Issa lovely day, so’s I just had’ thought teh go ‘round complimentin’ beaut ladies likes yerself!” He puffs up his chest. “I’ll even trill for ye! No payment in.”

He’s got a good voice, Daisy’s said. Good ‘nough to give him money, Thancred, if he’s in wants of honest work. But he ain’t, right now—he just wants that sweet.

“Oh?” The woman crosses her arms. “Not interested, lad. Now get yer sticky pickers out’ve me sight ‘fore I call the watchers on ye!”

Thancred makes a show of sighing, dropping his smile and drooping his shoulders. “Oite, ‘m. I’ll tell ol’ Blansbwrg that ye ain’t loverly ‘nough fer ‘im. Pity, ‘m.”

“Ye’ll tell who wot?” She squints at him until her eyebrows practically meet her cheeks. Thancred points. She turns to look, and quick as a minnow, Thancred snatches the biggest of the sweets and ducks away.

He runs to the rhythm of her angry shouts and his thudding heartbeat, but he is grinning from the rush, and victory tastes _so_ sweet.

~*~

“This is a _serious_ matter, Thancred. I cannot find that blasted tome, and I have looked for it everywhere!”

Y'shtola’s eyes shine bright in her frustration, brilliant teal almost glowing from the whir of unsettled aether and the stirrings of a verbal bite. Thancred does not tell her it makes her look even lovelier, although it is a close thing— _he_ does not wish to be bitten.

“I am merely suggesting that you take a break from the issue, for today at least,” he says placatingly, holding up his hand. “Take rest. Perhaps you shall be lucky and it will be awaiting you on your bedside in the morn.”

Her eyes narrow at him. “Yes,” she says in a flatly suspicious tone. “Perhaps.”

He smiles at her. In the end, she can do nothing to prove he has taken anything, so she searches for another two bells and then gives up in a huff and sleeps.

Thancred flips through the heavy pages of the tome, memorizing it as best and as quickly as he can. More Y'shtola’s area of expertise than his, he will admit, but he is… interested. Perhaps…

When Y'shtola awakes, she finds the thick volume of Thancred's dirtiest poetry book patiently resting on her nightstand. Thancred, in the meantime, has traveled to Gridania, and so is not in hearing range of her enraged shout.

~*~

Thancred slips into the tent when he has the chance—before departing for Garlemald, but after all the necessary preparations have been made, and he will not be noticed.

He clears his throat pointedly. Lyse jumps, spinning around.

“Oh, Thancred!” She presses a hand to her chest. “Rhalgr, you startled me. What are you doing here?”

His face breaks, then, into an amicable smile, and he stretches out his arm.

“A gift,” he says as she steps forward curiously. “Since yours broke.”

“Oh… what?” He uncurls his fingers, and Lyse looks in surprise at the fine red hair ribbon that she takes from him. “This is… wow! How…”

Thancred winks, bows, and starts to back out of the tent.

“Wait.” Lyse sounds as if she is starting to piece something together. “Where did you get this? It looks like the ones I’ve seen in… Hey! Thancred!”

“’Tis a token of my friendship, Lyse!” he calls over his shoulder, merrily trotting off. She will wear it—he is certain. Even if she has qualms about that sort of thing…

Well. It _is_ pretty.

~*~

Someone has taken Minfilia’s perfume bottle.

Thancred has not simply misplaced it. He _knows_ where he keeps things, godsdammit, and he knows it is missing. He has searched everywhere—every secret spot of his in the building, and those of everyone else’s as well. He has turned dressers inside-out and upturned stools and searched every last _ilm_ of every last cabinet and—

It is nowhere to be found.

Finally, he slumps on his bed, tired and worn and exhausted. He can feel his eyes heat, and he presses his thumb and forefinger into them, takes a shuddering breath, lets it out as more than one. A simple task. A _simple_ thing, so precious, and he cannot keep track of it, he cannot… cannot…

He drags himself out of his room, finally, and as he opens the door nearly shatters a small glass vial laying on the ground. He stares at it for a moment, disbelieving. Then he picks it up with tender fingers, shaking only as much as a trained rogue who has lost all sight of himself can.

Never again, he vows. He will _not_ lose it again.

~*~


	73. acts of kindness

_Go find someone_ , Y'shtola had said, a flicker of some hidden amusement in her eyes. And Thancred… has found someone! A… good… someone… Perched on a block of stone, eyes closed, hands pressed together, and looking… quite silly, in Thancred's opinion.

“Ikael!”

Ikael looks up, face brightening when he spots him and ears wiggling in that ridiculous little way that miqo’te do. Thancred… _loves_ that wiggle. It is so… cute.

“Heheh,” he mumbles, stumbling forwards and stretching out his arms. Ikael tilts his head. His ears move again, swivelling towards Thancred. It looks… even sillier! How silly.

Thancred croons, and, when he is within arms’ reach, moves to fondle those silly little ears with his hands. How _silly_. How soft…

“Uh,” says Ikael.

He allows the fondling for a minute, and then he gently pushes Thancred back. Thancred pouts. Not fair.

“What,” Ikael says, studying Thancred carefully, “in the _hells_ … is wrong with you?”

“No _thing_ ,” Thancred sing-songs, very convincingly. Ikael raises his eyebrows. Both, probably, although Thancred can only see one. How rude… Ikael should put his hair up.

He makes to do just that, but Ikael smoothly catches his hands and holds them. Thancred tugs, gleeful as only a charmed man can be, but somehow wanting them back nevertheless.

“Tell me who did this to you, and I will release you,” Ikael bargains. Ha! Thancred is the one who is good at bargaining, not the silly little cat.

“Release me, and I will tell you that it was Y'shtola,” he says confidently.

Ikael’s eyebrow frowns. “Is that so?” He slips off his block, releasing Thancred like he promised, because he is a naïve and nice person. “Rather inconsiderate of her, if you ask me. Especially… considering.”

“Lost a bet,” Thancred explains, moving to pet those ears again. This time, Ikael does not bat him away like a silly person.

“Then she can find another consequence,” Ikael says, holding on to Thancred's arm. “Come on. Let’s go have a chat with her.”

~*~

“Alisaie?” Ikael pauses, apparently having seen her through the doorway. “Is everything alright?”

“My… braid…” Alisaie grunts, jerking it once more. It snags, making her wince, and refuses to come free.

“Oh, no no _no_ ,” Ikael tuts, moving into the room and setting his book—a cooking book, it looks like—down on the nearby coffee table. “Let me help you, darling.”

She sighs, relenting and throwing her arms down. “Should just cut the damned thing off,” she grumbles, entwining her fingers together.

“Oh no—don’t say that!” Ikael makes an indication for her to turn around, and Alisaie obeys. He may as well try; at least he will be able to see what he is doing.

“Here we are…” She feels gentle fingers thread through her hair, a few very small tugs, and then her ribbon is being placed aside. “Why don’t you sit down? I’ll re-braid it for you, yeah?”

“You can braid?” she questions in surprise, taking a seat on the couch. Ikael makes an affirmative noise.

“Nobody worth their salt should not be able to. I braided my mother’s hair, sometimes, and mine own was longer before I met you all.”

Alisaie tries to imagine that, while Ikael slowly and methodically works through her hair, and has to smile.

“Really?”

“Yeah! Well, it wasn’t too long—down to my shoulders, about, but…” He starts chatting amiably, and Alisaie relaxes.

~*~

“Ohh, is that a little thornie in your little pawie?” Ikael’s voice goes soft as he gets down further, shimmying to his stomach. “Poor baby…”

The wolf pup whines, flattening its ears in fear, and Ikael coos at it, making soft clicking noises with his tongue. He is not that familiar with _canines_ , but they cannot be that different from cats, right? Probably not.

“I’ll take that out and give you some food, hm?” he says, slowly reaching in his pack for the fish he had caught earlier. He drags it out on the ground, maintaining eye contact. The pup sniffs, its ears perking up.

“That’s it… what a good little doggy…” Ikael croons, letting it investigate the fish. “See? I’m not going to hurt you! Good doggy…”

It licks the fish a few times, and then, when the movement puts pressure on its paw, stops. Ikael makes kissing noises at it as he reaches forwards to slowly pick it up.

He manages to extricate the thorn with little difficulty, thankfully, as the pup stays mostly still in his arms. He coos and pets it, telling it that it did very well, very well indeed, and before he knows it, it has fallen asleep.

“Huh,” he muses to himself, picking up his fish. He will wait here for its mother, and if she does not show, perhaps take it to his campsite and give it some food. The poor little thing is probably starving.

~*~

“I am serious! I did not expect your combat abilities to reach the level they are so soon,” Ikael tells Alphinaud, and the boy’s face lightens further.

“Do not think overmuch of it, honestly,” he says, waving away the compliment as though it does not clearly affect him. “I am just paying mind to my studies.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Ikael muses. “And besides, it is not as if you are at all viable in hand-to-hand combat.”

Alphinaud’s face freezes, then begins to fall. “… Ah,” he says.

“Do not worry! I am here.” Ikael smiles at him, reaching forwards to ruffle his hair. Alphinaud blinks hard, not reacting as he usually does to the gesture. “Good thing, too! Don’t ever get into a street brawl without your book, Alphy! There isn’t the slightest chance you’d win it.”

“Not… even the slightest?” Alphinaud says hesitantly. “I think I would be able to hold my ground for at least some time…”

“Nope! Not at all.” Ikael taps him on the head with one finger. “Your balance is wretched, and you stand like a caster.  That is alright; do not worry! I am shite at magic.”

He walks away, distracted by someone calling his name, and Alphinaud is left to stare at the ground.

“Somehow… that does not make me feel better,” he mutters. Then he shakes his head. There are other, more important things to dwell on at the moment.

~*~


	74. invasive questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (takes place between _scraping the bowl_ and _glued fragments_ )

The youngest son of House Fortemps is a walking, yapping, bleeding headache. Thancred stands by his opinion, stands by his decision to punch him back, and stands by the itch in his fist to do so once more should the opportunity… present itself. He is very purposefully sitting on his hands right now, mostly to mock Emmanellain, and is occasionally reaching out to snatch a biscuit just to see him jump.

It is good fun.

The young impertinence has been pestering Ikael, asking all sorts of ridiculous and invasive questions. Among them include, “Why do your ears look like that?”, and “Do your eyes glow in the dark?” and, Thancred's favourite: “If I were to cut your tail off, would it grow back?”

Really, it is a miracle he is not _used_ to being punched in the face.

Ikael, for his part, does not seem to be overly disturbed, and he patiently answers nearly all of Emmanellain’s questions. Thancred, in his shoes, would have _patiently_ told him to shove off, and so he can admire his restraint.

Emmanellain seems fixed on the matter of Ikael’s appearance, now. Something in Thancred, at this thought, shifts uneasily, even as Emmanellain breaks to take a sip of his wine and leans back in his seat. Thancred does not quite like the calculating set to his eyes, how they are alert and always on the lookout for juicy tidbits. He can grudgingly admire that skill when it is applied to Ishgard’s noble rabble, he will admit, but he does not quite appreciate that it is now directed at a friend.

Thancred takes another biscuit, simply to unsettle Emmanellain. It works, partly; his gaze falters and darts to Thancred's hands, but then resettles on Ikael, who is nibbling at his own biscuit, oblivious to everything else.

Emmanellain takes a long draft of his drink, then sets it back on the table with an audible sigh, smacking his lips. Thancred's eyes narrow at him slightly.

“I say, old boy!” Emmanellain begins, sounding as if a brilliant idea had just occurred to him, “I have a grand question for you! Splurge on the answer, if you like. I’d wager it’d fetch us a fancy tale!”

Ikael blinks, cocking an ear. “Yes?” he prompts. Thancred tenses in preparation.

“You never told me how you got that scar!” Emmanellain leans forward, tracing a finger down his cheek in a pointless imitation of what he is asking about. “I imagine it is from a grand adventure! Are you ashamed of it? Hm? Is that why you do your hair that way?”

Ikael looks… surprised. Yes—surprised, Thancred notes as he studies him closely, but not upset. Or… too bothered, honestly.

“Ah—no, this is just the way my hair goes.” Ikael gives a small, almost apologetic smile, as if he is causing offense by not being psychologically damaged from his own face. “And, uh… I got it from a plate! Actually.”

Emmanellain does not seem to expect this. Neither does Thancred, to be fair, but he is not the one who blinks rapidly and gawks like a dead fish.

“A… plate?” Emmanellain repeats.

Ikael nods. “Yeah! Someone threw a plate at my face, once. ’Twas an accident.”

Thancred winces at that. “You are lucky it did not take out your eye,” he says, contributing to the conversation before he can help himself.

Ikael chuckles a little. “I am,” he says. “Although perhaps then we would match in fashion choices, yeah?” He gives Thancred a small, teasing nudge with his elbow.

Thancred quirks an amused eyebrow back, resettling himself in his seat. The fleeting feeling of apprehension has passed now, and the invasive question has been asked. All is well.

“Will you purr if I pet you?” Emmanellain asks eagerly.

Ikael’s ears flatten back so quickly it looks as if they simply vanish. “What?” he says sharply.

Emmanellain starts to reach out. Ikael slowly pushes himself back in his seat, face mostly neutral. His tail, however, lashes to the side, accidentally hitting Thancred in the leg.

Emmanellain gets up. Thancred stiffens, watching as he moves closer to Ikael, who says nothing more. His tail puffs up like a moogle in a thunderstorm and he keeps moving his head incrementally backwards, but he is not speaking.

“Emmanellain,” Thancred interrupts, deciding to intervene, “I think you have exhausted our dear Warrior’s reservoir of patience. And besides, it is generally considered rude to poke and prod at someone without their express permission.”

He remembers quite clearly that night when Ikael wept to himself in the dark, for it was not too long ago. And he does not like the taste the memory leaves in his mouth, nor the niggling feeling of dishonour in his stomach.

Emmanellain looks at him, surprised, then seems to notice Ikael’s body language. He slowly backs away, lowering his hand.

“I, uh, well.” He scratches the back of his head. “I have… duties to attend to, so never mind! Yes! Well, be seeing you, old boy.”

And with that he scampers off. Thancred grunts, staring at his retreating back.

“Wouldn’t have wounded his ego overmuch to apologize,” he grumbles, not impressed with the hasty retreat. “But ‘tis easier for him to run away, I suppose.”

He glances at Ikael. “I hope he wasn’t too much of a nuisance.”

Ikael does not answer him. Nor does he move. Thancred waits for a minute, and when he remains eerily still, starts to frown.

“Are you quite alright?” he asks.

Ikael’s eyes flicker to him, then to the ground.

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

Thancred is not convinced. Still. He hesitates for a split second, and then decided that it is not his place, and makes to stand.

Ikael says, in a very quiet voice, “Could you stay for a moment? Please.”

Thancred sits back down. “Of course,” he acquiesces. Comfort he may not be able to do, but he can certainly keep company.

“Thank you.” Ikael closes his eyes. Well, at least he is speaking now. Thancred folds his hands together, starting to hum under his breath. This is almost nice, he thinks. Ikael is good company, and he does not complain about much, other than perhaps how much food someone is getting.

“I-I… apologize,” Ikael mumbles after a minute. He is still staring at the ground. “I-I… am sure you do not wish to… to babysit me.”

“It is hardly babysitting,” Thancred states, raising his arms behind his head and beginning to relax. “You are not—though he might protest otherwise—Lord Emmanellain, for example.”

This earns him a—giggle. An odd sound, in its unlikelihood, and Ikael seems to think so too, because then he chokes on air and starts to wheeze; a gasping, parched noise that makes him bend over on himself and dig his fingers into the flesh of his armchair. Thancred is up in a start. He nearly reaches for Ikael before realizing that that may just make it worse.

“Ikael? What is—Shall I fetch a chirurgeon?”

Ikael waves him off, shaking his head. He visibly forces himself to relax, beginning to take deep, wispy breathes, letting his hands clench in the air instead of in the furniture.

Thancred pours out a glass of wine, since he can find no water on the table, and waits. He does not _like_ waiting, in general, but he cannot think of anything he can do here, and so he sits. And… waits.

Eventually, Ikael quietens. He shoots Thancred a wary glance, and Thancred holds out the glass of wine.

“Drink something,” he says as Ikael stares in moderate confusion.

“I… uh…” Ikael rasps. He clears his throat. Thancred raises an eyebrow. Ikael takes the glass.

“Thank you,” he mumbles. He takes a sip. His face twitches, and he pulls back an ilm before biting his lip and taking another one. 

Thancred tilts his head. “What was that?” he murmurs, curiosity getting the better of his manners for a moment.

“U-um.” Ikael looks down. “I-I… it happens. Sometimes. Usually not like this, though. Shouldn’t have laughed.”

“Because Emmanellain was being nosy?” Thancred takes a biscuit. “Why did you not simply tell him to sod off, if that was the case?”

“I-it wasn’t… well. He was going to… I didn’t want him to… do. What he was going to do.”

That is reasonable enough, Thancred considers as he eats his biscuit. Although it does not answer the question of why Ikael did not tell him to sod off, but Thancred supposes that doing so is simply not Ikael’s way. He considers him, taking in the way he is hunched in on himself, how his hands are trembling around the wineglass, his eyes locked on something Thancred cannot see.

“Is there anything I can do to ease your mind?” Thancred offers, taking another biscuit. It is the least he can do, he supposes. Especially as he suspects no one has asked that question to Ikael in a long time.

Ikael's gaze darts up. “Um—well… I…”

The corner of his mouth shifts, and he looks back down. “… No, but thank you,” he mumbles. He pulls his ankles in closer.

He is lying, Thancred is nearly certain. He shrugs, giving the faint feeling of… something odd in his mind a mental frown. He almost writes it off as disappointment, but that is not quite right. Frustration? Too strong. Failure? At what?

He does not know. So he pushes it to the back of his mind, and lets it sit there, for now. Lets it tap against his chest, quietly enough that he would only be able to hear it alongside his own heartbeat. Perhaps one day, he will know what to do. Will feel more natural doing so, will _want_ to do so. But it is the wrong time, now, to chip at icebergs.

He gives a soft sigh, settling back in his chair. He will wait here with Ikael, since he has finished his tasks for the day. There is no harm in it.

_One day._

~*~


	75. a daylong gift

Ikael is wearing a very nice sash. It is indigo, he thinks. _Teal_ , Lyse had said, but he secretly disagrees, since he is fairly certain the colour between green and blue is indigo.

It is a very _nice_ indigo sash. It is a bit big for him, since it is roegadyn-sized and he is miqo’te, but he has wrapped it around himself a few times to cover up nicely, and there is a very fun bit that dangles in the front and flutters whenever he swats at it.

He has to look nice, because it is a very special day. Thancred's nameday, in fact! Or… sometime around it, at least. Thancred has always been evasive about it, loveable arse that he is. Ikael does not wish to wait around—they leave for Doma in a few days, and he does not want to be stuck there and leave Thancred cake-less past the date itself.

It is not that difficult to find the man himself, thankfully, since Ikael can be very nosy when he wants to, and Thancred is not concealing his whereabouts. Ikael trots around Rhalgr’s Reach when he is directed there, keeping an eye out for a handsome bard in an overdramatic outfit.

He finds him leaning against the side of the tavern, one leg cocked backwards, picking at what seems to be some sort of lute-like stringed instrument. He glances up when Ikael appears, and strums a chord.

“I am simply tuning her,” he says, straightening up. “Her previous owner said she’s lost all her magic, but what does he know about magickless things, hm? I think we shall make quite a pair.”

He picks at a string, and the instrument twangs out an awkward note. Thancred hums in consideration, going to adjust it once more.

“‘Her?’” Ikael cocks his head. “So you _are_ one of those people. Well, how about you paint her a nice bright blue? I think she’d look very pretty!”

He smiles, wiggling his ears. Thancred gives him a look that sits between amused and pained.

“I… think I shall leave the bright blues to you, my friend,” he says, nodding at what Ikael can only assume is his lovely sash. “So what brings you to my humble square fulm?”

Blue? “This is indigo,” Ikael tells him proudly. Thancred only looks at him silently for a few seconds, so he mentally shelves the discussion and continues.

“This is for you!” he says, thrusting out his box. Thancred tilts his head a little and lowers his instrument; he is intrigued. How adorable!

Ikael wiggles his box—double chocolate cake, miniaturized for one person, fresh from the oven—rocking on his feet in anticipation. Thancred raises an eyebrow, and slowly takes it.

He opens it, and his expression shifts into one of surprise. “Oh!”

Ikael is beaming. “It’s for _yo-u_ ,” he sing-songs. “Happy nameday! Whenever it is. _Haaaappy naame—_ oh! Please tell me if you are allergic to chocolate.”

“I am not.” Thancred looks slightly bemused. “When did y—”

“Good! I’m so glad. So, um. I… planned a little outing. For, um… you. And me! But mostly you. … And me.”

Thancred's mouth quirks in amusement. “An _outing_?” He crosses his arms slowly while Ikael makes a face at his implication. “Well, I am flattered, Ikael, but sadly not interested.”

“For your _nameday_ , you decrepit old arse,” Ikael says, crossing his arms as well, and then uncrossing them and taking the cake before Thancred can drop it. “Eat your cake, and then we are going to Limsa Lominsa.”

“Limsa?” Thancred shoots him a wary glance. “I do hope you have nothing too extreme planned.”

… Ah. Ikael presses his lips together. “Mhm!” he agrees.

~*~

“This is… the exact opposite… of nothing too extreme,” gasps Thancred as they press themselves against the side of the stowed ship, panting. “This is _very_ extreme. I… daresay… this is as extreme as it gets.”

“You love it,” Ikael wheezes back. He closes his eyes, letting his head thump back against the dull wood. A second later, he hears a gunshot, startling close, and then another, even closer, and then a third at the same time that the area above his head explodes in in fragments and blown-out shards.

Thancred has already danced out of the way, and is now urgently gesturing for him to follow. Ikael ducks another gunshot, grinning, and sprints off after him.

~*~

Three bells later they are sitting in the Bismarck, gazing peacefully out over the ocean, the light of the centre lantern bathing their table in a soothing yellow glow. Well, _Thancred_ is sitting, half at the table and half to the room, trying to tell a story, and Ikael is scurrying about with their orders, making the food.

“And _then_ she said that it wasn’t her, it was her sister!” Thancred shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “Imagine! I’d been deceived all along. Well, I am glad to say that that was some time ago, and I am much more observant nowadays.”

“Of course you would have a ‘turns out they were twins,’ story,” Ikael says, gently agitating his frying pan in a steady rolling motion. It needs to be off heat, so he can stand next to Thancred for a minute or two.

Thancred tilts his head. “You do not have to cook for us, you do realize?” he says. “You no longer work here.”

“Yer mate’s right!” a deep voice hollers from the kitchens. Ikael rolls his eyes, smiling.

“Guild can always use an extra hand,” he says. “And besides; I had the evening cleared out of all the annoying customers. Least I can do to pay that profit loss back is be the one cooking.”

“Only until our food is ready,” Thancred states gravely, pointing at him. “And do not use that as an excuse to take extra time with it. _You_ are the one who is dragging me around on this ridiculous outing, and so _you_ are the one I want to eat with. Not the gulls.”

“Bloody seagulls,” a nearby waiter mutters. Ikael gives him a nod of kinship.

“Ikael.” Thancred jabs him lightly. “I am serious. I will wait for as long as you need me to, but I _do_ wish to eat alongside you.”

“Ohh,” Ikael says, touched. He vigorously shakes his pan. “Alright then. I will get back to our food after I finish this. Are you sure you do not want the shrimp risotto? It is very good! And I _promise_ I will not suddenly fall ill from merely being in proximity.”

Thancred shakes his head, the stubborn arse. Ikael pats him on the cheek fondly and heads back into the kitchen.

~*~

“No, no—I’ve got it,” Ikael says, deftly moving Thancred's plate out of his reach. “Let me do my job! All you have to do is eat.”

His words are gently chiding, but he is smiling. He sets the dishes down with a flourish before sitting across from Thancred.

“Pipera is good braised with a honey melt,” he points out—literally, with his fork—before Thancred can take a bite. “That’s that bit there, and if you like it, there’s more in this. If you don’t like it, I’ll eat it; don’t worry.”

“Your lovely blanket is falling into your food,” Thancred replies, leaning forwards. “Here.”

“It’s not a blanket; it’s a sash,” Ikael insists as Thancred gently readjusts it, tucking it in over his shoulder. “And if you want dessert, I was thinking that instead of having it here, we can go and get ice cream!” He smiles happily. “I love Limsan ice cream! ‘Tis my second favourite food.”

“Ice cream,” Thancred repeats to himself, apparently thinking something over. Finally, he sighs. “Alright,” he agrees, picking up his utensils. He points his knife at Ikael. “But only if you eat without fretting. Deal?”

“Hm…” Ikael waits until Thancred takes a bite, pauses in disbelief, looks at Ikael, rolls his eyes, and then makes an overdramatic show of liking the food. He smiles. “Deal.”

~*~

Ikael is… _so_ full. He feels like a happy, sleepy, indigo balloon. Thancred has already gone to sleep, after claiming that Ikael is a demon from the depths of the seventh hell and that he should have never let himself be talked into taking the “nameday scoop” of ice cream. _It is not even technically my nameday, Ikael_ , he had said. _You are simply odd. And contagious._

Ikael surprises himself with a jaw-cracking yawn. Time to head to bed himself, then, he thinks as he slogs back upstairs. The rest of the Bismarck’s dishes can wait until tomorrow. He changes into his sleep clothes (he had brought the nice tunic with the very long sleeves) and then trudges over to Thancred's room.

He cracks open the door, peering inside. The room is dark, lit only by the silver blush of moonlight, and Thancred is, evidently, asleep, his hands tucked underneath his pillow.

Still, Ikael whispers, “Don’t worry! It’s just me, Kael,” before slipping inside and closing the door.

There is plenty of room in the bed for two, Ikael notes contentedly as he slowly slides under the covers. Ooh… it is nice and toasty in here… and it does not smell fishy, which is a good bonus. Ikael carefully presses himself to Thancred's back, curling his hands between his shoulder blades—softly touching against the cloth of his shirt—and beginning to hesitantly relax. He does not wish to get stabbed.

He presses his nose into the pillow, breathing in deeply, and is immediately comforted by the familiar scent alongside the clean bedsheets. A dear friend can always be counted on, Ikael muses as his eyes start to close, to smell the same.

Ikael’s nose is still cold. He hesitates, then presses it oh-so-slowly to the back of Thancred's neck. Hopefully, he will not notice.

“What’n the frozen bloody hells izzat?” Thancred mumbles groggily. He begins to stir. Ikael shushes him hurriedly, uncurling a hand.

“Shh,” he soothes, petting his ear.

Either that works or Thancred is mollified by his presence, because he stops moving after a few seconds, and Ikael does not get stabbed. Ikael coos at him softly, slowing down until his petting comes to a gentle cease.

“Happy nameday, my wonderful, beautiful, perfect friend,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to Thancred's shoulder. His eyelashes flutter, catching on the fabric of the pillowcase. “And goodnight.”

~*~


	76. advice

“Than _cred!_ I can walk,” Ikael chides gently, pushing at him weakly with one bandaged hand. “’s alright.”

It has been but a short walk from his bedside to here, and he already looks tired. But Thancred wants to get him away from the stale air of his bedroom, and there is nothing like a mountainside walk to perk oneself up.

“Walk? ‘Stumble,’ I think you mean, or perhaps ‘pathetically limp,’” Thancred says, letting go of Ikael’s arm for a moment and then retrieving it once more when he takes more of a stagger than a step.

“Is this what you are like when you worry about someone? You are like a grumpy parasite,” Ikael murmurs affectionately. “‘I try and fail to conceal my feelings beneath a veneer of sarcasm and grouchiness,’” he imitates, pitching his voice to what Thancred assumes to be a closer approximation of his own and affecting a _truly_ offensive manner. “‘Ikael, fix yourself at once, else I shall pout at you for the duration of your recovery. Hurr durr.’”

Thancred idly kicks out a rock in front of Ikael and loosens his grip, and Ikael stumbles. “Oops,” Thancred intones dryly.

Ikael tuts at him. Thancred presses his lips together to stop a smile as he glances up at the outcropping they’ve reached.

“We can sit over there,” he says, pointing to a large boulder at the top. He begins to climb, letting go of Ikael.

“Oh. Yeah.” Ikael’s voice has a sardonic lift to it. “No problem at all.”

“Really? Glad to hear it.” Thancred crouches down, reaching out to Ikael, who stares at him.

“Come on, now,” Thancred says. “You trust me, right?”

Ikael slowly moves his hair away from tired eyes. He smiles.

~*~

“So what did you want to talk about, hm?” Ikael is sluggishly unwrapping the cookies he has brought, taking care not to tug at his bandages.  They had to retie the ones on his hands; frankly, that had been the whole reason Thancred had planned the climb, since Ikael had seemed more inclined to keep them on the more tattered they became. But even he cannot argue against a tear or two being too much of a risk for infection.

Thancred says nothing for a minute, instead breathing in deeply and looking out over Mor Dhona. A breeze fans through his hair; fresh, crisp, keeping him alert.

“It is more of a question I am curious about having answered,” he says finally. He glances down, to their feet hanging over the ledge. “You do not _have_ to answer, however, if you do not feel comfortable in doing so.”

An oatmeal-raisin cookie sticks itself in his field of vision. “What is it?” it asks.

Thancred takes it, bites. It is good, of course.

“I am… curious about the events in Ishgard,” he begins slowly, carefully aware of his words. “You lost someone dear to you. I am wondering how you coped.”

Ikael does not react negatively, thankfully. Instead, he gently taps Thancred on the shoulder, and when Thancred looks, frowns worryingly at him.

“Thancred?” he says softly. “Did something happen?”

“Recently? No,” Thancred takes another bite of the cookie. It is gone, just like that—too small of a thing to last long enough. “Just… what you know. But I handled that the way I did, I suppose. You were there for it.”

“I remember.” Ikael gives him rueful smile. “You nearly bit my head off when I tried to speak to you about it. Although rightfully so. I am glad that—”

He pauses. “I am glad… you did not shut everyone out,” he says slowly. “I was afraid you would, honestly. It seemed likely. But you did not.”

Thancred looks up, at the sky. “She is there, somewhere,” he says as Ikael leans against his shoulder, giving a small yawn. He remembers himself at the last moment, and glances down, but Ikael seems unperturbed by the mention.

“She is,” he agrees softly. Thancred relaxes.

"I... do miss her," Ikael mumbles after a hesitant pause. "I-I know how... it may seem. But I do. She was nothing but kind to me."

Thancred does not reply to that, only swallows around the lump in his throat and blinks hard. _She was nothing but kind to everyone_ , he does not say.

“I… was not very happy,” Ikael starts after a minute or so of thoughtful silence. He nibbles on his own cookie, and hands Thancred another. “Fairly angry. At the people who were responsible, at Ishgard as a whole, at Alphinaud. At Aymeric and Estinien, even. I thought they were fools. Impulsive, reckless fools.”

“You did not tell the Lord Commander that on your date, did you?” Thancred asks. Ikael laughs.

“No,” he says, a smile in his voice. “I talked to him about moogles and cream puffs. It had become… easier, by then. We were all picking ourselves up again, for better or for worse.”

Thancred makes a neutral noise at that, but he cannot say he disagrees. Picking themselves up… perhaps. In a way. “So you took it out on Coerthas’s training dummies, then?”

Ikael shrugs. “They weren’t alive, so no. I took it out on the Heaven’s Ward. Calmed down a smidge after that. We found Y'shtola soon afterwards, which helped.”

Thancred remembers the first hug he had gotten in moons, after the Bloody Banquet. “And me,” he adds.

Ikael giggles. “And you,” he says. “But, I… was hopeful. To have a chance of… well. I-I… was expecting a bit much, perhaps. From… everyone around me. It didn’t really work out.”

Thancred's gaze falls at the memory. He remembers those times, everything around him seemingly slipping away from him the second he barely touched it. Not willing to deal with Ikael’s neediness, but not wanting to be another person ignoring his autonomy. Nothing that can be changed now, he supposes—indeed, he does not even know if he _would,_ given the chance—but… they ended up here, did they not?

“I think,” Ikael mumbles, yawning once more, “The… anger started to bleed out when I spoke to Alisaie, one night. We were speaking of… things, looking at the stars. I was struck by how… new the world was to her. She was so young, but she had accomplished so much, to herself. I felt… proud of her. I do not know.”

He shifts, adjusting himself against Thancred's side to lean even more weight on him. Thancred takes another cookie from his lap.

“So what you are saying,” he says through a mouthful of crumbs, “is that I should have gone to Alisaie Leveilleur, then forced her to monologue to me about her limited life experience.”

Ikael gasps in false indignation. “Don’t you dare say anything mean about Alisaie,” he says. “Or I will angrily stare you to death while being physically incapable of doing anything.”

Speaking of his body’s current state, it is seemingly getting heavier and heavier. “Is that so?” Thancred says, and Ikael’s reply is fittingly cut off by a yawn. “Well, then, answer me this before I die. Why did you not redirect any of that anger outwards at Y'shtola and I? Was it because we were not involved directly? Was it because you found us after the fact?”

Ikael yawns again, for longer this time, and stretches. Thancred patiently waits for his unequivocal bout of wisdom.

Ikael shrugs. “Tired,” he says.

Thancred lolls his head around to look at him. Ikael blinks lethargically. Smiles.

“Were you answering my question,” Thancred asks uselessly as Ikael’s eyes start to close, “Or simply speaking your mind?”

“Mmhm,” says Ikael.

“You are going to drop the last cookie,” Thancred points out.

“Take it,” Ikael mumbles, voice already as heavy as his body.

Thancred sighs, but does take the cookie, and waits for Ikael to fall asleep. Then he carefully picks him up, glances down the way they came, and decides to take the scenic route.

~*~


	77. star bright

“This is not funny,” Ikael says in a high, most likely panicked voice (Y'shtola cannot tell; he sounds too squeaky). “This is incredibly not funny.”

“Hm,” Y'shtola says neutrally, curling a finger around her chin. She, personally, thinks it is extremely funny, but as the person Ikael has gone to as a last hope, she should probably not share her opinion.

“Perhaps you might put a bucket on your head?” she suggests.

“A _bucket?!_ ” Ikael’s squeaking increases in pitch. Y'shtola squints at him slowly, mostly to shield her eyes from the brightening of his glowing hair.

“Or a helmet,” she rectifies. “At least that will be a bucket with holes.”

“Can you—” Ikael seems to realize that his best option is to calm himself, and takes a slow breath in, then out, before continuing. “C-can you fix it?”

“Hm.” Y'shtola allows a smile to curl up her cheeks. “I don’t know; I think it quite suits you, Warrior of _Light_.”

Ikael stares at her, then groans. “Oh gods, that’s horrible,” he says. “That’s horrible. Don’t tell Thancred or Yda that—they won’t leave me alone. Seriously. Please do not.”

Y'shtola laughs at her own joke for a solid ten seconds before sighing and shaking her head. She strides forwards, reaching out to feel his hair.

“I can help you not look like a cheap Starlight celebration, at least,” she concludes after a long inspection. “But the glow will, to some amount, persist. It will fade in time, hopefully.”

“Please.” Ikael clasps his hands together. “I will bake you _all_ the sweet tarts you want.”

Y'shtola _does_ like his ugly little sweet tarts—their taste more than makes up for their appearance. “Alright,” she says, pleased. “Come with me to the library, then, and help me research a solution.”

~*~


	78. out of time

_“Leave us!”_

Two words from Y'shtola—a sharp gaze, keen and bright, a determined set to her mouth—and that is all it takes. Minfilia looks upon them one last time with tears in her eyes, but tightens her grip on the lantern and flees. A silent goodbye. They look at Ikael.

“No.” He is already shaking his head. Thancred and Y'shtola’s forms are blurring in his vision, but he smears a trembling hand over his eyes and they come into focus.

“Ikael, we are _out of time._ ” Y'shtola’s voice is exasperated, but the edges of it are fond. Sad, he thinks. It has taken a long time for him to learn her language, but… finally, he can understand her.

“You need to look after Minfilia.” Thancred's thoughts are on the Antecedent first and foremost, of course. Ikael sniffles, tears gathering in his eyes once more.

Then, impulsively, he darts forwards and hugs Thancred. As tightly as he can, thinking, _I love you. Please be safe. Please._

He jerks away when Thancred starts to hug him back, and gifts him with a watery smile. “There. Now you owe me a hug,” he says. “I-I… aim to collect on it.”

“Ik—” He hugs Y'shtola too, before she can speak his name, holds her small frame close for as long as he can bear. She quietly hugs him back, and he does not want to think on what that means. But when he draws away, she is giving him a smile with her sadness overgrown, and the painful conclusion reaches him anyways.

With one last glance back, he runs away.

Abandons them.

~*~


	79. cinnamon rolls

“You are not delaying everyone by an afternoon just because you want to forcibly glut your food down their throats, are you?” Thancred asks, squinting at Ikael’s loud yellow apron since it hurts his eyes. “Because _that_ would be more than a bit ridiculous.”

“Oh, shut up, Thancred.” Lyse is bright as sunshine today, most likely out of mere happiness at being included for once. “Let him bake! Important meetings can’t happen on empty stomachs, after all!”

“Three eggs…” Ikael mutters to himself, staring into space. Then again, a little louder: “ _Three_ eggs.”

“Two eggs,” Y'shtola responds, setting aside the requisite amount, “And one egg _white._ ”

Ikael’s large ears perk up instantly, as does his tail. He looks ridiculous, in Thancred's opinion.

“Ah!” he exclaims.

“Do… cinnamon rolls usually require so _much_?” Lyse says, looking over the ingredients Ikael has laid out with a worried eye. “I feel as if you are going to make enough to feed half the Ala Mhigan army!”

“‘ _We_ ,’” Ikael corrects as he squats down to adjust the oven. There is a whir of aetheric life, and the inside begins to emit a very faint glow.

“Why do you have to heat it up before?” Thancred is mystified.

Ikael stares at him. Thancred gets the feeling he was not supposed to ask that question.

“He is going to distribute whatever is left over to completely random strangers, Lyse,” Y'shtola says, since Ikael does not seem as if he is going to answer her. “Fear not.”

“Alright!” Ikael claps his hands together. He is noticeably happy at having so many people under his tutelage (or at least as a captive audience), and Thancred has to smile at the excited flush to his cheeks. “You two, start mixing these ingredients together in this bowl,” He thrusts various items at Thancred and Lyse, “And Shtola and I will do the other half.”

They get to work under Ikael’s cheery and watchful eye. He is a good teacher; patient and gentle, although repetitively corrective at mistakes. Nothing less than perfect for something he deems important, Thancred supposes, finding that he does not mind. Lyse, for her part, seems to be striving to exceed Ikael’s expectations, and even seems to be pulling Thancred into some sort of competition over who can best follow his instructions.

It… was not too long ago that Ikael was more than a little upset with her. Thancred does not know what eventually happened, but since Ikael invited her to this activity, it is reasonable to guess that they have evened out whatever wrinkles lay between them. Lyse certainly does not seem to be taking this opportunity for granted. Honestly, her overattentiveness is a little sad. Thancred gently touches her arm with the back of his hand when she mutters a curse after fumbling with the flour and spilling some of it on the counter.

“It is alright, Lyse.” _Ikael will not get angry with you, and definitely not over a small mistake_ , he wants to say, but does not, because Ikael himself is within earshot. “The dough is not an enemy you have to beat up. Add less flour at a time and mix it slowly. See? Taking it easy makes it… ah, easier.”

Lyse stops, startled out of her self-directed aggression, and looks at Thancred—to catch his gentle smile. The tension melts from her shoulders. She smiles back, a bit ruefully, and starts adding the flour into their mixture significantly slower.

Thancred readjusts his grip on the bowl. He glances over at the miqo’te, who are working together with ease. They have become closer during the past year, and the difference is plain to see. Thancred will admit he is a little jealous; he had noticed the “Shtola,” and although he had heard her shortened name from Ikael’s lips before, he does not quite recall when it had started happening. Ikael and Y'shtola share a familiarity, now, that Thancred and her do not have, in a way, but they… _do_. It is…

Thancred mentally derails that train of thought. Well. Ikael is definitely not speaking _truthfully_ when he cries about how he is always alone and no one loves him, that is for sure. Whether he believes it or not… is another question. Thancred, in a sudden strike of both warmth and petulance, briefly entertains calling him _Kael_ now, but he has a feeling that privacy is integral to that truth. There is a risk that Ikael would… not appreciate it.

“Thancred?” Lyse is calling his name. “Your turn to stir! My fingers hurt.”

Thancred dutifully lets go of the bowl, letting Lyse grab hold of it before he takes up her previous task. He glances over at Ikael and Y'shtola, who are—

… Much further along than they are. Damn it.

“It’s alright, Lyse,” Thancred reassures her. “Because we are taking our time, it means we are putting a lot more care and effort into this endeavor than they are.”

“I didn’t say anything,” says Lyse.

“I have an idea.” Thancred lowers his voice. “I keep mixing, and you sneak off and call them by linkpearl. Pretend to be a… cookie vendor, or something.”

“Why would a cookie vendor have their linkpearl contacts?”

“Then they will be distracted, and we will catch up,” Thancred continues, ignoring her. “Heh. Have you ever seen a miqo’te use a linkpearl? ‘Tis quite entertaining.”

“Did you know, Thancred,” Y'shtola says at a normal volume, “That it is possible to break a… _particular_ bit of your anatomy as one would snap a twig? Now I think _that_ is a far more entertaining thought.”

“Haha! That is quite funny,” Ikael agrees, seemingly out of pure joviality and not because he has heard anything Thancred has said. He is in another corner of the kitchen, in fact, smearing a couple of bowls with butter.

Thancred shoots Y'shtola an extremely disconcerted expression that he hopes she cannot make out. Lyse, next to him, giggles, and Thancred pouts at her. This is not fair—he is _surrounded_.

“Okay! Everyone dump their dough in here,” Ikael chirps, tail curling happily as he brings the bowls over. “One lump per bowl!”

“Oh, are we finally done? Can we leave?” Thancred asks, wiping his hands off on Lyse’s apron. She punches him in the arm (and he expertly hides his wince).

Ikael’s face creases into something both patronizing and sympathetic. “Darling,” he says. “ _Sweetheart_. No.”

“Do you simply wish to eat raw dough?” Y'shtola’s tone seems to imply that her mental quantification of Thancred's intelligence has, against all odds, sunken even further for suggesting that they leave because his hands are cramping. “Go ahead, then. I shall watch.”

 “Oh! I know this part!” Lyse claps her hands together. “We are making the cinnamon bit, right?”

Ikael presses a forefinger to the bridge of his nose and raises his eyebrows, to what effect other than looking ridiculous Thancred cannot presume to guess. “Yes! Well, more or less. Good job, Lyse! Points for Lyse.”

“Whoo!” Lyse cheers, pumping her fist. This draws a startled laugh out of Y'shtola, who is already covering her smiling mouth when Thancred whips around to look.

They patiently line up to wash their hands. Thancred holds back behind everyone else to watch them, at first to debate how sneakily he can flick flour at their hair, and then out of unbidden affection as his mind eases at their circumstance. It is a rare thing to have a moment where more than a couple of them can spare a moment to relax at once. Thancred will admit that it is… quite something, to see them all unwind like this. It unfolds a freer, happier side of them that has been tucked away far too often and for far too long.

 _You need something to love, old man_ , he thinks to himself. Ikael is rattling on about something insignificant that has caught his interest, and he is smiling and warm and happy. Lyse seems to respond in kind, with heartfelt exclamations and a hand that is hovering over his arm when it is not squeezing or resting on it. Y'shtola is…

Well. Y'shtola is staring at him.

“Wash your hands,” she sniffs.

Thancred gives a small bow, then blows a cloud of flour from his hands directly into her face.

“Done,” he says with a grin.

By the time Y'shtola stops coughing, he is already hiding behind an open-mouthed Ikael.

~*~


	80. starlight, star bright

Three people is _certainly_ enough for a party. Ikael doesn’t know where everyone’s (well, the two other people’s) criticism is coming from. From a non-festive spirit, that’s where.

“—and I really do have to go back to my mountain of paperwork, Ikael! Ikael?! Are you listening to me?”

Ikael is not, in fact, listening to Tataru—he is too busy worrying about whether she and Alisaie will like his presents. He smiles, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. The bell on his hat falls and hits him on the forehead. He carefully repositions it.

“Yes, darling. Don’t worry; I’ll take you back to Kugane when it’s over, okay? Or maybe tomorrow, if you want to stay for the evening?”

He gives Tataru the best pouting face he can manage while dressed up like a child’s fantasy of the Saint of Nymeia. She spasms stressfully for a moment before slowly melting.

“Oh, alright,” she says, touching his cheek. “But don’t give me that look to make me do things! It’s unfair.”

Ikael winks at her before heading back to the kitchen to check on his pie. It is coming along nicely—it will be done in a few more minutes, he thinks. He will wait and make them hot cocoa in the meantime.

He finally goes back to the atrium with three mugs of hot cocoa and his pie on a tray, and smiles when he sees Alisaie leaning forwards in a chair, head in her hands, paying acute attention to what Tataru is yattering on about.

“And I’m just worried he’ll forget, you know?” Tataru is pressing her hands together. “He forgets a lot of things! Once he went clothes shopping with me and forgot to bring his coin purse! Sometimes he forgets that he’s put something in the oven! It’s a fire hazard!”

Ikael clears his throat to get their attention, hoping the flush of embarrassment he can feel in his cheeks is not visible. He… does tend to forget _some_ things. Of… varying importance.

Tataru squeaks, spinning around to face him. Ikael smiles at her awkwardly. Alisaie simply looks amused.

“I, uh, didn’t forget to bake this, though!” He lifts his tray, showcasing the pie.

“It’s a bit… small.” Alisaie looks as if her smile is somehow paining her. “You weren’t expecting anyone else, then.”

Ikael coos at her immediately, setting his tray down on the coffee table. Poor thing probably needs a hug. Ikael will gladly give her one.

“Why are you making that ridiculous noise?” Alisaie says into his—expensive, but very nice-feeling—coat, voice muffled. “This isn’t a _pity_ party, it’s a _holiday_ party. Of… some sort. I am sure.”

“Yes!” Ikael’s ears attempt to perk up, but cannot, since he is wearing a hat. It shifts a little. “Well. Starlight cakes are usually relatively disgusting fruitcakes. So! And especially considering that we are all very sad and lonely, I thought it best to bake a pie!”

He beams, looking from one of them to the other. Tataru beams back, clapping her hands. She _loves_ his pies. At least, that is what she tells him whenever it is time to eat lunch. Or breakfast. Or supper.

Alisaie looks at his pie. “… What kind?”

“Rolanberry crumble! My favourite. A-ah-ahh—pie, that is. Ye—yes.”

Alisaie takes her mug of hot cocoa, peering at the pie with renewed interest. Neither she nor Tataru seem to have noticed Ikael’s stumble, thank Hydaelyn. He is not quite ready for _that_ secret to slip out yet.

~*~

“This is a very… oddly-shaped present, Ikael.” Tataru is holding it as if it might bite her. “I’m almost worried to unwrap it, to tell the truth.”

“It’s safe, I promise!” Ikael insists, pressing his hands to his cheeks. He waits excitedly as Tataru slowly tears away the wrapping paper, tail whipping from side to side. When she finally holds out the gift and stares at it, he jiggles on his toes.

“It’s a leash for your carbuncle!” he says happily. “I-I-I thought—you know, since it’s always running away! This way it can’t!”

It is a _brilliant_ idea. Ikael is a _genius._

“I… cannot believe you thought of that! Thank you, Ikael,” Tataru says, and Ikael jiggles harder. She likes it! Ikael is so happy. He has been so _worried_ …

“And for _Ali_ …” He digs in his bag, searching for her gift.

“What did you just call me?” Alisaie asks. Her voice is soft with something akin to disbelief. Ikael is not paying attention.

He pulls out his second gift with a flourish. Alisaie takes it hesitantly, and he smiles at her, patting her on the head. Hm—she needs to wash her hair.

“It is… a very red dressing gown?” Alisaie holds it up once she finishes unwrapping it. “Uh…”

“Red is your colour!” Ikael tells her, in case she has forgotten. “And this was so nice! I wanted to get another one for myself, but I didn’t have enough money! And besides, it wouldn’t be special that way.”

“I…” Alisaie looks bemused. “… am grateful to… finally have something I can…” She looks at Tataru,  who nods at her for some reason, “… read… books! In. Thank you, Ikael.”

Ikael coos at her happily, opening his arms for a hug. She smiles, and gives him a gentle one.

“I have more!” Ikael declares. He reaches into his bag again.

“I… did not get either of you anything.” Alisaie’s voice is low with regret. “I am sorry. With everything that has been going on… to tell the truth, I barely noticed it was approaching Starlight.”

“Oh, it’s alright.” Tataru smiles gently at her. “It is your company that matters, after all! Your presence, not your presents.”

She giggles. Ikael giggles, too, since that is a very funny joke.

“Okay.” He takes out his last two gifts for them, which he has not wrapped, and hands them out. “I-I… knitted these. I-I am sorry if the craftman—if the—if it is not… very good.” Ikael is very much a beginner.

“Oh, this is a lovely blanket, Ikael!” Tataru shakes hers out; a lovely lavender and pink. Alisaie’s is red, orange, and brown—autumn-themed, Ikael had tried. It is Starlight, but… he likes the colours.

“Mine is, ah, the same size as Tataru’s, I see,” Alisaie points out. Ikael reaches up to tug at his ear nervously. He ends up jingling the bell on his hat instead.

“I-I, um… tried to make sweaters. Apparently those are not very… beginner-friendly projects.”

Ikael picks up the scarf Tataru had given him as a present and sticks his face in it, inhaling. It smells like very lovely wool.

“It is a treasured thought, Ikael.” Alisaie’s voice sounds kind. “And the yarn seems very exp—I-I mean… It looks as if you put a lot of effort into this, and that is what matters.”

“… Wait.” Tataru’s voice does not sound as kind. “How much did the yarn cost?”

Ikael whines into his scarf, his tail hitting his leg. He paid for all of gifts out of _pocket_.

~*~

“Hello, Thancred.”

Ikael gazes upon his unmoving, self-declared best friend. He looks dead—Ikael does not like that at all. Not at all not at all not at—

He draws in a shuddering breath. He leans down to kiss Thancred's nose, then his forehead. His cheek. His other cheek. Draws back.

“I-I-I, uh, knitted you a-a… um, blanket?” Ikael’s voice rises in pitch with his uncertainty. He squeezes the soft wool in his hands. “It… was supposed to be a sweater, but… o-oh well. Haha!”

He is going to start crying again. He sniffs, then carefully places the… blanket… on Thancred's chest, smoothing it down.

“I-I made yours dark red, bec—because… you said you liked it. Um, remember? U-um… some time ago.” He sniffs again. “I-I… um… know you don’t have the best fashion sense. But I can—I-I can agree with you on this one. I-it looks—it looks good. On you.”

He gives Thancred one last kiss on his cheek, then straightens up.

“Happy Starlight,” he says softly. “H-hey. You know what’d be a great present?”

Thancred does not reply. Ikael gazes at him for one long, last moment, then leaves the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

~*~


	81. eye of the beholder

"You are so beautiful."

Ikael's voice is quiet, touched with affection and some other emotion that Thancred cannot quite place as reverence. His eyes are soft, steady, meeting Thancred's straight-on and not darting down to the bedsheets after he speaks.

Ikael's gaze still does not stray from his ten long seconds later, and Thancred finds does not quite know what to say. He clears his throat, quiet and awkward only in his bemusement. He is the one who looks away first, who feels the unfamiliar heat of embarrassment creep up his cheeks.

Ikael smiles at him softly.

"Ah... thank you," Thancred says, somewhat at a loss. He gives himself a mental shake. He must needs sort out his manners. "You are too."

 Ikael shakes his head. Thancred mirrors the slow movement. "No...?"

"No," Ikael confirms. Thancred is even more confused than he was before, although that is not saying much.

"Well I do, objectively, think you... are," he tries. This is not a language he speaks, but he can try his best to not act too much like a goby out of water.

Ikael shifts underneath the covers, and taps him on the chest. "No," he repeats. "You are saying it back, which does not count. I was saying it because it is... because I was thinking it."

Even Ikael is trying to rephrase for his understanding. Thancred still does not quite get it.

"But I do think it," he insists, not wanting for Ikael to be hurt that the thought is not returned. "I can say it, if you wish. I think you are beautiful too, Ikael."

This time, Ikael's smile is touched. He gently taps Thancred's lower cheek, however, and repeats, "No."

Thancred gives up. Scanning Ikael’s eyes to understand the intent behind them is a fruitless endeavour, he finds. Very well then. Thancred will wait for him to explain.

Ikael does not explain. He leans forwards—for a frightening moment Thancred thinks he is going to kiss him and that he himself has horridly misunderstood this entire conversation—and does give Thancred a soft kiss, but only on his nose.

Thancred's eyes flutter as he thinks on what to say. This is… platonic, right? Right? With Ikael, to be honest, it can sometimes be hard to tell.

“Boop,” says Ikael.

Well, that settles it. If it is a romantically-inclined interaction, it is certainly not a successful one. Thancred smiles back, feeling an airy chuckle in his breath.

 “Why, thank you,” he says. Ikael giggles, bright, happy, and comically delighted. Although Thancred feels as if he is still unfailingly saying the wrong thing, at least it is still amusing in some regard.

Still. “I think you have a very charming personality,” he tries.

Ikael begins to laugh at him, patting his face rapidly. Thancred still has no idea what in the name of Thaliak’s left nipple is going on, but he finds himself grinning regardless.

Some things do not have to be understood to be shared, after all.

~*~


	82. partying, partying, no

“Just pick something that you do not mind wearing,” Thancred says. “Honestly, I don’t know why you want to look at _my_ clothes. They will not fit you, and I fear half my wardrobe will irritate your skin.”

“Hm?” Ikael turns around, pulling his lollipop out of his mouth with a soft pop. _Oh_. Thancred is… trying, bless him, although he still does not quite get it. Ikael pats him on the chest. “Ah. It is… not like that, really. It is more the—the— _personality_ of the texture. Clothing is usually fine.”

He turns back to his selection. “And I am here because… I do not have anything red that is nice! ‘Tis a _party_ , Thancred; I cannot just wear whatever I would normally.”

Ooh—Ikael catches a flutter of delicate fabric in the far right. He slowly pushes long shirts and trousers out of the way, taking his time to enjoy the feeling of sticking his hand in hanging clothing.

“You wore a bathing suit to our last party,” Thancred points out.

“It was _hot_ outside,” Ikael defends. And then they went to the beach afterwards! At… Ikael’s insistence, admittedly. He sticks the lollipop back into his mouth.

Thancred sighs. “You say that as if you will not insist on taking a dive into the nearest snowbank in your smalls because ‘’tis the season,’”

“M’ smalls wou’ get wed,” Ikael says. “Wou’ do it naked.” Ah! There is the fabric again. Ikael tugs at it with his thumb and forefinger until he manages to pull out a thin, feminine sleeve.

He turns to Thancred and slowly raises his eyebrows.

“I will give you three guesses as to whose dress that is,” Thancred says. “And, ah, I would rather you not wear it, please. I… the sleeves would rip.”

Ikael hums around his lollipop, nodding sympathetically. “D’you have anythin’ similar you wouldn’ min’ me wearig?”

“Hm.” Thancred motions for Ikael to step aside, and he does, bouncing on his toes. He wonders what Thancred is going to wear—hopefully something pretty! Ikael will let him borrow a scarf if he wants. Or one of his stretchier cropped shirts.

“Here. Is pink close enough?” Thancred pulls out a sheer, silken-looking outfit, slung up unconventionally on its hanger. “F’lhaminn brought this back from Thavnair. I had been intending to gift it to Lyse, but she has her sister’s dress now.”

Ikael tilts his head, straightening out the fabric so he can see it in its full. No sleeves—good. Skirt… less good, but Ikael can deal with it for one evening. Perhaps he can wear leggings underneath so that he will not feel his legs brushing together.

“Id is very wovely,” he says in some awe, letting his fingers drift over the beaded design at the collar. “You wou’ lemme wear id?”

When he looks back at Thancred, he is smiling. “Yes,” he says. “It will look good on you.”

Ikael makes a fretful noise and pulls out his lollipop. “I fear I will look too awkward.” Ikael is not… the most graceful in fine clothing.

“Nonsense! You will be splendid, I am sure.” Thancred's smile turns his eyes warm. “A beauty on the dance floor.”

Ikael points his lollipop threateningly. “I am not dancing,” he says.

Thancred tuts at him. “You _are_ dancing, because it will turn every eye in the room. What better way to get all the handsome men’s attention, hm?” He winks.

“They will see me make a _fool_ out of myself,” Ikael groans, shifting his weight agitatedly. “I am definitely not dancing.”

“Hmph,” Thancred says cryptically. He gives Ikael a once-over, as if sizing him up. “We will see. In any case; dancing or not, at least it will be fun.”

~*~

Ikael is so, so _bored_.

Over the course of the evening, he has come to the firm conclusion that political-oriented celebrations are not his thing. The people here do not laugh at his awkward attempts at humour, and he has been asked about his opinion on the petit fours three separate times. Ikael does not even know what a petit four _is_.

A few friendly faces are milling about, of course, but they are important people busy talking to other important people, and Ikael is both too shy and too hesitant to rudely butt in. He had found Lyse for a precious minute, and she had giggled with him over the word “buttress,” but even she had been swept away in order to rub well-connected shoulders.

Thancred is here, at least (he is wearing the nice red bandana Ikael had gotten him!), but he has been mysteriously absent. Ikael had spotted him once or twice with Riol, but the most he had gotten from him was a regretful glance and an apologetic smile.

 _Scion business,_ Ikael thinks gloomily, popping another one of the odd, bite-sized confectionary cakes into his mouth (he thinks they are Ishgardian). All hopes of being able to steal Thancred away to gossip with have been long dashed; Ikael had seen the looks exchanged by the guards and the way a select few people have been growing increasingly alert as the night drags on. A security risk, perhaps? Ikael would not mind punching an unwelcome guest or two.

His suspicions are confirmed two questions about petit-fours later. Ikael is biting into one of the last little confectionaries left when the staticky ding of his linkpearl sounds through his ear.

 _“Ikael, are you inside the complex?”_ Riol’s voice crackles through. Ikael hums an affirmation, shoving the rest of the sweets into his mouth as he looks for the closest exit.

Riol updates him on the situation, and Ikael cracks his knuckles as he makes his way over to where a group of opportunistic rebel thaumaturges are apparently causing trouble. At least the night will have _some_ excitement.

~*~

Adrenaline is still running through Ikael’s veins when he reports to Riol, hopping from foot to foot and grinning from the thrill of the admittedly short fight. He is dismissed, and he is just about to resign himself to a few more bells of drawn-out ennui when he sees Thancred wandering towards him.

“Well, don’t you look more alive than you have the entire night?” he greets with a smile. Ikael coos and runs at him, throwing his arms open.  

Thancred laughs as Ikael collides with him, stumbling for a moment before regaining his balance. “It is good to see you too, Ikael,” he chuckles breathlessly.

Ikael kisses him on the cheek, then pats his face rapidly, beaming. “We can gossip now!” he says. His ears wiggle happily. “Oh, I found these lovely little sweets—I saved one for you!”

“Ah…” Thancred's face creases in sympathetic regret. “I fear I must needs be swept away for a bell or two to sweep this matter up with Riol,” he says. “I am sorry.”

Ikael’s ears stop moving, and he can _feel_ his expression fall. So Ikael will be… alone once more. That… He…

“That is not to say that I am leaving you without company!” Thancred adds hurriedly. He steps back from a dejected Ikael, glancing around. “Sadly, it cannot be mine own, but… Come on out! Yes, now. I thought your starstruck phase had long passed, no?”

Ikael is just about to resign himself to an evening of trying not to cry in a corner when a figure shyly approaches from behind a wall. Ikael blinks at it, taking in the dark, blue-ish tinted skin and hair, the long tail.

“Ukebe?” he says in surprise.

Ukebe gives him a small smile. “Hello, Ikael,” he says. “Apparently you are in need of some… uh…”

Ikael has stepped forward to carefully hug him. He kisses him on the cheek as well, then pats it.

“Hello,” he greets, a little confused when, after a second passes, Ukebe still has not replied. Ikael glances back at Thancred; has he done something wrong?

“You will get used to him,” Thancred says, apparently to Ukebe. “Use ‘yes’ and ‘no’ liberally, but nicely.” He bumps Ikael’s shoulder with his, then, and when Ikael obligingly turns around, gives him a long embrace.

“I expect you to barge into my room in the middle of the night with hot cocoa and a complete lack of any sense of reasonable sleeping schedules,” he says with a pointed look. Ikael nods, already slotting in the activity, then pops the sweet he had kept into Thancred's mouth.

“Ba-bye,” he says. “Don’t die before me.”

“Goodnight, Ikael.” Thancred takes the sweet out, then gives a deep bow and a wink before heading off with a swirl of his long, fancy coat.

“So… ah…” Ukebe speaks up awkwardly, and Ikael turns to him with a beaming smile. Time to have fun with a new friend!

“How were, um, the petit fours?” Ukebe asks.

Ikael stares at him.

“I, uh, saw you,” Ukebe adds, flushing slightly. “A few times.”

Ikael had not moved from the refreshment table the entire evening. Ukebe is not making any sense, but Ikael does not mind. People tend to not make sense a lot of the time, he finds.

“It is gossip time, darling,” Ikael declares, patting Ukebe on the shoulder rapidly. He can feel his spirits begin to rise once more. “Did you see what Alianne was wearing? Green looks lovely on her!”

 Ukebe’s face eases, then, into something a little friendlier and more comfortable. “It does, doesn’t it?” he says. He leans into Ikael’s shoulder. “Although speaking of green, did you see Coultenet? He…”

Conversation after that is easy and readily-supplied. Ikael’s opinion on parties will not change, but at least now he can complain about them to someone for at _least_ two bells.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ukebe is from chapter 51


	83. invitation

“Might the lovely lady grant me a dance?”

Y'shtola has to contain her sigh as she turns around. She does not need to… _look_ , in her new way, to know who is speaking to her; indeed, his is a voice she thinks she will unfortunately recognize for the remainder of her years.

“Unless your injuries still ail you, of course,” Thancred continues. His voice, still lofty with aggrandized charm, betrays him only in how it quietens.

A passionate man still, then. Of course he is, and of course he is worried about her. Y’shtola does not hide her sigh, this time.

“You know I do not find myself drawn to such… frivolities as dancing when there are urgent matters to be concerned about,” she says. “Be as they may be delayed for an evening, I, for one, would rather lend my thoughts to mental endeavours rather than physical.”

She has been thinking on how to refine her aethereal shield; it should not have broken as easily as it had, even upon taking such a forceful blow. Perhaps had she had more time to focus on it—but there is no _time_ to focus in the heat battle. The room for improvement must lie within the possible acceleration of aetheric strengthening, then; she has a few ideas she would like to go over with Mhit—

“Do take a respite for _one_ night, won’t you?” Thancred breaks the chain of her thoughts. Y'shtola blinks as they scatter upon so easy an interruption. Perhaps her injury _is_ still taking its toll, then. “A rest would do you well, I’d imagine. Besides,” and his voice dips in volume once more, “’tis for Lyse.”

Y'shtola’s gaze lowers. He is right, of course—this celebration _is_ for Lyse, and all she and the others of the Ala Mhigan Resistance have accomplished. The least Y'shtola can do, Thancred is artfully not saying, is to attempt to participate.

She looks at him, then, letting her awareness expand. The line of his shoulders is more relaxed than usual, although there is still an undercurrent of alertness in the way he holds himself that is usual of him. He is also, she notes, extending a hand towards her, and his one visible eye seems fixed on hers, despite how futile an idea trying to make eye contact may seem.

Y'shtola considers, and then places her hand in his with some reluctance. Even were she not able to detect it, she would have almost _seen_ the smile that sprouts on his face at the gesture.

He bends down. Y'shtola feels the faintest brush of lips on the back of her fingers, unaccompanied by any scratchiness his excuse of an attempt at facial hair would bring. She fights back a fond eyeroll, and steps forward.

“One,” she says, “And keep it short.”

“An unusual request from a lady, but I will abide by it.” Y'shtola _doesn’t_ have to look to know he winks. This time, she allows her eyes to scan the heavens in search of an answer to why this man is like this.

“Shouldn’t be difficult for you,” she snipes back, and walks towards where the merriment has gathered.

~*~


	84. small activity

“Ikael,” Hien says, just before Ikael is about to head back to Ul’dah. “A moment of your time, if you would graciously grant me it?”

His voice is deep and grave even if his face is creased apologetically, as if he feels ill about delaying Ikael, but the matter he wishes to discuss is too important to put off for overlong. Ikael turns, one hand still held up to his linkpearl, and raises a finger.

Hien’s mouth opens in a silent “ _Ah_.” He bows, stepping back a yalm.

“I am sure you can hold off for a day or two.” Ikael continues his conversation. “I—No, Cecily, don’t ‘but, Captain,’ me. It is dangerous out there still, and I don’t want any of you getting hurt.”

He glances idly at Hien, who crosses his arms and nods. Ikael hums at Cecily’s staticky response in his ear.

“Yes,” he says. He frowns. “No. You know what? Tell him I’ll be there in the morning, alright? I’ll make everyone a big breakfast. Make up for it.”

His face hardens somewhat. “If I haven’t already made it clear: _No_ , and that’s an order.” He toes at the ground. “Alright… Yes. I-I… am sorry for yelling. Okay. Goodnight, Cecily.”

He switches his linkpearl off with a sigh. It is tempting to simply disconnect it and toss it somewhere for the night, but with all that is going on, he does not want to risk being off call.

“An order, eh?” Hien’s eyes, he feels, would have a humorous twinkle in them were they in any other circumstance. But the only indication Ikael has that he is being teased is the lilt his voice. “You are in a position to give those, then, _Captain_ Jelaar?”

“Ugh.” Ikael rolls his eyes playfully, but smiles. He walks closer to Hien so they can speak. “Don’t ever call me that—Raubahn doing it to bully me is bad enough! Unless you want to be _Shun_ ’d in front of the entire Alliance.”

“Noted.” Hien winks, and Ikael bites the inside of his cheek.

“So what did you wish to discuss?” he asks. A part of him idly—and cheekily—wonders if Hien has a more… _personal_ request. But he dismisses the thought, as entertaining as it would be. Hien seems serious. It makes a sapling of worry sprout in Ikael’s chest, to be frank; he hopes he is not going to be the receptor of any _more_ ill news.

“It is a…” Hien glances down for a fraction of a second, then back to Ikael, holding his head high. “… personal matter, actually. Might we speak somewhere more private?”

“After _that_ display earlier? Sure,” Ikael jokes, subconsciously moving his shoulder in an attempt to bump it with Hien’s. As they are not standing close enough to each other, he only manages to look perhaps a bit odd.

Something like surprise sparks in Hien’s eye, and then he laughs; a deep, hearty sound Ikael has heard strangely often. Ikael grins, sharp and a bit surprised at the easygoing reaction to his—rather impulsive, he will admit, but the battle had made his blood run hot and his mind move fast—flirtation.

“I am glad that my excessive and show-offish demonstration enthused you so,” Hien says, the ends of a chuckle still in his breath. He spreads his hands. “I fear I am but a humble samurai without the unwavering strength of my allies to ground me, however. You of all people would understand. But come now; we shall speak in your tent, since Yugiri is less likely to eavesdrop.”

Ikael glances around instinctively at the mention of Yugiri. He cannot _see_ her, but… well, one never knows. Ikael has found a battle-pastry missing from his belt more than once.

The enter the tent Ikael has set up for the night. It is large enough for two people to fit comfortably, if a bit snugly. Ikael immediately goes to put the kettle on, glad that he thought to bring it. Wedge is a marvelous engineer, in his opinion.

Hien kneels down on a flat cushion after laying his katana aside. Ikael sits across from him. He hesitates, then slowly scoots closer.

“Well,” Hien says, folding his hands together. “There is no two ways about this, then. Forgive me if I am blunt.”

He takes a breath. Ikael squeezes his ankles, rocking a little. His tail flicks.

“After Master Thancred, ah, got his… soul sucked out of his body,” Hien begins, and Ikael winces automatically at what he suddenly knows is going to be brought up, “You were… rather agitated.”

Ikael remembers. He scratches at his ear, staring at Hien’s toes.

“It, um… happens sometimes,” he mumbles. “I-I-I panic. Like—like that. ’m sorry if I… disturbed you.”

“It was unexpected, but I was only worried.” Hien’s voice takes on an affect that Ikael is not quite sure what to make of. “And I still am, to be quite honest. I did not get the chance to check in on you then; as you are aware, we were dealing with matters of our own. But those are well on their way to being resolved now, and there is a moment for us all to breathe.”

Ikael nervously picks at his brais. The kettle goes off and he jumps, then hurriedly scrambles up to pour the tea.

“Two minutes,” he tells Hien as he holds out his teacup. Hien takes it with a gracious, princely nod, and Ikael has to giggle. Does he practice doing that?

“But yes,” Hien continues as he no doubt realizes Ikael isn’t going to say anything useful. “A moment to breathe is all I need to take the opportunity to ask how you fare. I am… concerned for your wellbeing, Ikael. Especially with Alisaie being taken so recently—and so suddenly.”

“A-a-ah,” Ikael says. _Blunt_ , Hien had said, and, well, yes. It is… unexpectedly so. Ikael closes his mouth, staring at his cup. It is a Hingan blend, and Ikael has been told he is not supposed to add any sweetener. He does not like that.

“I apologize if I have brought up something you would rather not think about.” Hien’s voice has taken on that affect again, turning into something dulcet and quiet. “Truly; it is not my intent to pain you. We can change the subject, if you so wish!”

He pauses for a second to blow at his tea, dark lashes shifting down as he glances at it. His posture seems to… ease, a little, as if becoming more relaxed. Ikael anxiously hugs his knee.

Hien sips, makes a considering face, and continues: “But… I noticed that none of your companions seemed inclined to lend you their concern. Or even just an ear. It is not a little peculiar.”

His tone tilts at the last sentence, as if he is getting at something that Ikael cannot quite guess at. Ikael hides his face behind his teacup, ears folding down and tail flicking restlessly around his ankles. Hien is—right; it is an awkward fact, but it is true. Ikael is not… prone to developing strong bonds with the people he brings with him. He is no good at group chemistry and it is… difficult to stick to people. Or rather, it is difficult for them to stick _back_. Ikael is… Ikael is _too_ sticky. He is like… chewed taffy.

“Um. They, um. Aren’t really my companions in anything more than battle,” he mumbles. “More out of necessity than anything, you know?”

Besides, more than one person is not supposed to chew taffy at a time. That is disgusting. Ikael will stick to his one person, and rotate them as necessary.

“I did notice they departed rather quickly once the matter had concluded,” Hien states. His eyes, when Ikael meets them, are as sharp as his sword. Ikael quickly looks back down.

“They have, um… things to do,” he says. He doesn’t know, really—he does not ask.

Hien does not reply to that. Ikael fidgets, feels increasingly awkward as the silence stretches. He sips at his tea. It is not sweet.

“Ikael,” Hien says after what could have been a short amount of time, even if it does not feel like it. “How do you fare?”

Ikael harshly rubs at the curve between his nose and cheek with his forefinger. He pulls his knees up. He does not know… Is he supposed to switch people now? Hien is his friend, right? He had said as much, when Ikael had visited him. And… and now Alisaie is not there. Shtola is not there. Ikael is lonely.

“Ika—”

“I miss Thancred,” Ikael blurts out. Just like that, as if on cue, tears blur his vision. “I-I-I—h-he is my best—my best friend and h-he—he,” He pauses to hiccup airily, “He is not _back_ yet and he—” A dry sniffle, “He—he missed my name—my nameday and when he ca—came back he did not spend—he did not get—get to spend more than—than one time w-with me a-and—” A longer, slightly wet sniffle, “I-I-I _miss_ him and I-I wish th-that nasty voice would stop—would stop taking my—my _friends!_ ”

Ikael starts to cry in full force. “And—a-and—and I only _have_ four friends but—but I-I don’t know ab-about that really becau—because it’s a—a-a difficult label a-and…”

“Alright, alright, take it easy,” Hien says, holding out his hands. “I… uh… admit I wasn’t expecting all of that, but… ah… I’ll just let you…”

Ikael is busy messily wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He sniffs, loudly.

“There, there,” Hien says, a bit stiltedly.

“You’ll drop your tea,” Ikael mumbles, because he is about to.

Hien glances over, and straightens the teacup just as it threatens to tip and spill. Ikael sniffles approvingly, tugging on his tail.

Hien gives a little cough, and then leans forwards. “I apologize; I am not the best at this. But have heart, my friend! All is not yet lost. We will get them back, I promise.”

His words do not register; Ikael is tired of hearing platitudes. He starts to wipe at his eyes with the back of his hand, hoping that Hien will hug him soon.

Hien’s tone gentles somewhat. “Is there anything I can—”

That will do. Ikael shuffles forwards gladly, pressing his hands to Hien’s abdomen and face into his sternum. He gives a little sniff.

“Uh,” says Hien.

Ikael is just about getting comfortable when he feels a soft chuckle. Intrigued, he tilts his head, flattening his ear to Hien’s chest so he can feel it better.

“I should have known this would be the solution,” Hien says lowly, humour that Ikael does not understand still in his tone. “Ah—no! No, I am not complaining. Please, do what you will.”

Ikael, who has started to hesitantly draw away, slowly moves back. He feels himself begin relax at the warmth, the proximity. “Amsothefula,” he mumbles.

Hien sips at his tea. “Pardon?”

Ikael does not want his _own_ tea; he presses it into Hien’s free hand until he obligingly takes it. “Thank you,” he mumbles.

Something warm and uncomfortably ceramic briefly touches his head—Ikael’s ear flicks at it in annoyance. “You are very welcome, my friend,” Hien says. “Now; we can stay like this if you wish, but I brought some… what is it? Triple Triad? Triple Triad cards, if you wish to take your mind off things.”

They can play _strip_ Triple Triad. Ikael’s tail curls approvingly.

“Okay, but we use my rules,” he agrees. He is… not very good at card games. He spreads his hand over the criss-crossed scar on Hien’s shoulder, feeling the grooves with his thumb. “And you’re not allowed to cheat, or steal my cards.”

Hien sighs dramatically. “Such restrictions!” he groans. When Ikael glances up, he winks.

“Eorzean Triple Triad it is, then,” he says. “I hope you are prepared to lose.”

Ikael does not remember winning more than a single game of Triple Triad. “I-I hope—I hope _you_ are prepared to lose!” he throws back, creatively.

“Your boastful blustering makes me tremble in my sandals,” Hien assures him. “Come now—enough wallowing! It is time to forget the troubles of the day. I’ll even let you go first.”

~*~


	85. always be friends

“What is this strange garlean contraption?” Thancred looks at it in suspicion. The device in question whirs at him defensively, shaking its coils as if threatening to shock him for daring to cast doubt upon its nature. Thancred thinks it rather resembles a torture device for nutkin; he will warn his away.

“Oh!” Ikael scuttles over. “That makes tea.”

Thancred watches as he gives the device a little pat, then rubs at his eye tiredly, apparently forgetting the spilled lemon juice on his fingers. The action seems to be a jarring reminder, because Ikael shrieks and runs to the sink a second later.

“Ow, ow, ow,” he whimpers, shoving his head underneath the running faucet.

“A gift from Cid?” Thancred questions, only now noticing the Garlond Ironworks logo on the… kettle? (It probably has some ridiculous name, like _the Boilmaster 4000_ ). “He seems rather fond of giving you things. I thought the ovens were a fair enough expense.”

“I had to pay for those,” Ikael’s garbled voice calls from the sink. “But yes, it’s from Cid. He is a lovely friend—he is nice to me and doesn’t make fun of my outfits. You could do to learn from him, yeah?”

“I do not fancy myself an engineer, unfortunately,” Thancred says. He slowly pushes a button on the oven that he had seen Ikael press earlier. Surely enough, it lights up. Thancred ducks down and peers curiously at the pie baking inside.

“No, you don’t,” Ikael says in a tone that is far too smug to be coming from someone who just smeared lemon juice all over his eye. “That’s why Cid is my _other_ best friend, whom I only never talk about because it would make you seethe with jealousy.”

“Is that _so_?” Thancred straightens up. “Strange; ‘other’ implies the existence of another one.”

Ikael slowly looks up, water dripping down half his head in a ridiculous, startlingly unattractive manner. He scoffs. A spewed droplet hits Thancred on the arm.

“You’re my only friend,” he says, as if it is obvious. “That makes you best friend by default.”

He pulls his tunic up by its collar to rub it over his head. Thancred should… turn the oven light off. He does not; he stands there without doing anything, and licks his lips.

“ _I_ am your only friend?” he says, and maybe he should not demand like he is, but—oh. “What of the others? What of the high regard Lyse holds you in, what of how Alisaie looks up to you as if you are as unreachable as the sun?”

 Ikael has gone still. Thancred regrets his tone; he speaks again, gentle: “I cannot be the only one you care for.”

Ikael’s fist clenches in his tunic. “I didn't _say_ that!” he ejects forcefully—and loudly. Thancred winces automatically.

“I don’t—I-I didn’t—I-I don’t—That doesn’t mean _that_!” Ikael’s voice is getting increasingly (and exponentially, it seems) upset. “Why do y—why do you—that doesn’t—that’s not what it _means!”_

Thancred holds out his hands placatingly. Hindsight is Crystal-clear, he supposes. “Then forgive me for assuming,” he says. “What do you count as ‘friend,’ then?”

“I don’t _know!_ ” Ikael explodes. He bats Thancred's hands away, expression twisted. “I-I don’t—I think dif—differently than you! I thought you knew that!”

Ah— _that_ is what he is reacting to, then. “I know you do,” Thancred attempts to soothe. It does not seem to work; Ikael scowls, and bats him away further.

“No you _don’t!”_ he exclaims. “You _don’t!_ You don’t get it at all.”

His voice quietens on the last sentence. He goes silent, turning from Thancred to put away the dishes.

“Then explain it to me?” Thancred ventures after a moment.

He can almost hear Ikael’s frown. “No,” he refuses. He huffs through his nose. “None of your knowing. Is bad,” he mutters.

He is upset still, then. Thancred will give him a minute to cool off (after which he will, most likely, start sobbing his apologies). He turns back to the oven, kneeling down to watch the pie bake.

Surely enough: five minutes later, Ikael is hesitantly poking him.

“’m sorry,” he mumbles, opening his arms when Thancred looks at him before enfolding him in a hug. “Sorry, sorry,” he mutters into Thancred's neck.

“It is alright,” Thancred says. “I should not have pushed you. How are you feeling?”

Ikael shrugs loosely, nudging closer. “Mhnmahnm,” he grumbles into Thancred's collar.

Thancred pats the back of his head. “How long until the pie is done?” he questions.

Ikael looks up abruptly, knocking Thancred's jaw up with a dull _clack_. He swears, recoiling from the hit.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Ikael is already flailing around the kitchen, apparently looking for something. “Shite—I’m sorry!”

Thancred spits out a mouthful of saliva and blood onto the floor. Ikael make a horrified noise.

“You’re cleaning that up,” he coos, pressing something soft and frozen to Thancred's jaw. “Yes you are. Yesh.”

“Don’ byoody talk to me yike tha’,” Thancred grunts. Ikael coos louder, kissing the air.

“U-um,” he says after a minute of silence, seemingly out of nowhere. Thancred looks at him, sees his eyes dart around the kitchen. “Not… not-friends like me because I do things. To—to make them happy.”

So they are speaking of this now, then. Thancred waits, but Ikael’s gaze seems willing to fixate on anything but him. _Very well_. “And why do I like you, do you think?”

Ikael stills. Breathes in, out. Then finally, light green eyes flicker towards Thancred.

“I don’t know,” Ikael says. He smiles a little, hesitantly.

Thancred hums, considers the best way to approach this. After filtering through a dozen possible responses, he settles on, “I like you because you make me happy without doing things.”

He speaks easily, but carefully. Best to throw Ikael’s language back at him, on subjects like these. _And so do more than just I,_ he wants to add, but he does not. One small step at a time.

Ikael nuzzles his cheek. Kisses it gently.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “I-I like you too. At first because you were pretty and nice.”

Thancred waits.

Ikael sighs in contentment, moving Thancred's braid out of the way before gently resting his head on his shoulder.

Thancred gives up on waiting. “ _Aand_ …?” he drawls dramatically, giving Ikael a set-up, should he need one.

“Hm?” Ikael pets his hair.

Thancred huffs. Ikael never had good taste. “Why do you like me now?”

Ikael shrugs. “I dunno,” he mumbles.

Bastard thinks he’s clever; Thancred can feel him smiling. He is about to utter an even _more_ clever, completely scathing retort, but a mildly foul scent drifts to his nostrils, distracting him.

Thancred sniffs. Frowns, sniffs again. Gags a little.

“Ikael,” he says slowly, squinting at Ikael’s cheerful _Mhm?_ He tries to turn his head so he can see what is being pressed to his jaw, but Ikael, frustratingly, simply follows his movements. Thancred gives up.

“What… is this?” he asks carefully.

“Oh!” Ikael shifts. “Um. Dodo. I was about to throw it out, actually.”

“You were about to…” Thancred swallows down a flash of sudden nausea. “How… old is it?” he ventures, not sure if he is wants to know the answer.

Ikael shrugs. “Maybe a year or so,” he guesses.

“Ah,” Thancred says, very faintly.

Ikael kisses the side of his head. “You hold this,” he says, pressing Thancred's hand to what he can now—to his slowly-mounting disgust— identify as gradually-thawing dodo meat. “I didn’t finish with the dishes!”

He gets up, giving Thancred an extra pat on the head, as if the small consolation will make up for redistributing the contents of his stomach. Thancred stares after him with a forlorn eye.

~*~


	86. sand ills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> addendum: he's like 17 here

There is sand in Kael’s sandals.

It is not a little troubling, in his opinion. There is much greenery in this oasis, so why is there _sand_ , too? Should it not simply cease to exist and turn into dirt? It seems to have no problem in doing so with the water.

Kael gently sets his fishing rod down before taking his sandals off and violently shaking them.

“My eyes,” says his mother. “Kael.”

“Sorry, Mamae,” he mutters, craning his neck away as a grain of sand lands in _his_ eye. “One second.”

A hand touches his elbow and he stops, arms still held aloft. He is still blinking to clear his vision when he looks at Jela, but the frown on her face is visible enough. Kael’s stomach sinks.

“I am sorry—did I hurt your eyes, Mamae?—I am sorry,” he blurts, all in a rush. His ears flatten back agitatedly, but she soothes them with a hand on his head.

“Then do not shake,” she admonishes with a small smile. “It is alright.”

Kael nods vigorously, already turning the lesson over in his head. _Consequences happen regardless of acknowledgment, Kael. Actions do not exist in a state of suspension._

“I love you Mamae,” he says in a stumble, because she has not said whether he had hurt her or not. Jela’s eyes dart to the uneasy flick of his tail and her hand on his head gentles, stroking slower.

“I love you too, kitten,” she responds, easy and genuine. Kael relaxes.

“Now please pick up your fishing rod,” she says. “It is going to fall.”

Kael hurriedly does so. Then he scoots up close to Jela and drops his head on her shoulder. She gives him a little pat.

~*~


End file.
